The Ties that Bind Him
by Lady Cailan
Summary: Two people battle between love and loyalty - one must realize her own desires and one must cut the ties that bind him.  AU - Zevran and Cousland.
1. Chapter I

_Author's Note: So, here we are. After much blood, sweat and tears, the first posting of my brand new __fan fiction. Before anything else, I want to thank from the bottom of my heart Breilana and Kira Tamarion who have so generously given of their time and agreed to help me beta this project. Without them, most of this would not flow as easily as it does. They are fabulous and I owe them much. _

_Now, a couple of notes before you dig in (if this is your type of dish). Firstly, the story is greatly alternate reality – I have changed more than one HUGE thing to make it work – so if you are a fa__n of strictly canon fanfic, this might not be for you. _

_Secondly, although the story chronicles the coming together of Zevran and the Warden, it will heavily feature one original character.__ (and a few minor ones later on) Once more, if this isn't your cup of tea you might want to check out something different. If you're still here (and I hope you are) get ready – and prepare to suspend all Dragon Age canon! Enjoy!_

_LCailan_

"It is said some lives are linked across time...they are connected by an ancient calling that echoes through the ages...destiny." -Prince Of Persia, The Sands Of Time

_Prologue__ (post Landsmeet)_

_They walked amidst lush greenery, the afternoon sunlight gracing them with its warmth. Two people, hand in hand. She wore a simple yet beautiful blue gown and he gazed upon her__ every few moments when she wasn't looking. Cinnamon colored eyes shone with clear devotion to her._

_His thumb traced over her delicate hand, as if gently reminding her of whom she belonged to, and when the breeze picked up slightly, his fingers tucked a fiery red curl behind her tiny ear with the utmost tenderness. _

_Here in this greenery, away from the hustle of life, she wasn't the daughter of a Teryn and he wasn't just months from his coronation as the new king of Ferelden. She was just Lucia Cousland and he was Alistair Theirin (the bastard prince, as she so affectionately called him.) How they had arrived at this idyllic moment had not been easy. Death, pain, sorrow, regret and uncertainty all lay in their past, and most likely in the future as well, for such was life. But for now, they had each other, and that would be enough._

_She stopped by a__ blue green pond, gazing out at it with thoughtful silence and he stood behind her, always her guardian. When she moved to sink into the grasses lining the water's edge, he was there to offer his hand, even though there was no need. She allowed it, knowing his intention was born of what they had been through, and not her helplessness. He did it, knowing she was stronger than he, but wanting to do this for her, because it was one small way in which he showed his love, and his silent promise to always be there for her._

_They sat along the banks of the pond, mostly in silence, hands still linked, and their words so soft that no passerby would have heard their conversation. Her bright green eyes were turned up in his direction as she gazed with affection at his handsome face, and her hand came up to caress his cheek. He blushed, his eyes shining with love. They were close - a closeness known only by two who had been through everything and come out on the other side mostly whole. Mostly sure of what was to come, and ready to face it together._

_She rested against him, her back to his front, and when she tipped her face up with a smile upon her mouth at something he had just said, his own mouth claimed hers in a gentle yet passionate kiss. In those few precious seconds they were lost to everything else, knowing only each other. It was a perfect snapshot of peace and contentment in an imperfect, turbulent world._

_The Landsmeet had been called - Loghain and all those who followed him had perished. All there was left to do was slay the archdemon and then Alistair would face the throne and take on all the responsibility that came with it. He was a man, afraid but confident that with her at his side, he would succeed. She was everything he was not; they were two halves of one whole. She had been at his side through everything - and he intended to finally claim her as his own, and this time forever. _

_Her eyes widened in delight and a smile dimpled her rosy cheeks when he bashfully declared his intentions, stumbling over his words in the dashingly endearing way he had the night they had first spent together. He told her of his love, and of forever, no matter what came. The white diamond ring glinted in the joyous sunlight, sparkling on her finger as she accepted it and his eager and fumbling kisses. The moment seemed perfect - neither knew of what was to come - and even though she hesitated for a split second, she knew that this was her destiny._

_She would be Q__ueen along side a man who loved her in ways no other ever had. A good, gentle man. She loved him in spite of telling herself she never would. She loved him even though when he had first shown his interest, she had laughed. Now, everything was different - it would be a new beginning for both of them. Their joy gave birth to excitement and they decided on a wedding shortly after the impending coronation. They would slay the archdemon and with the end of the Blight, they could start their new life together. _

_In that moment, love blinded them, the sun warmed them and it seemed impossible that anything horrible could happen. They did not know of the sacrifice they would be asked to make or of how vital Morrigan would become to ensuring their happiness. Indeed, they knew nothing of the future and of the secrets that it hid. _

_They were simply two people looking forward together, hand in hand, finally hoping for a future as beautiful as their engagement day._

o-o

_CHAPTER ONE_

_-Antiva City (Post Landsmeet)_

o-o

o-o

A man stood staring out at the Amaranthine Sea as it rolled into Rialto Bay, the waves crashing against the obviously man-made seawall on the eastern side of Antiva City. His dark green eyes took in the churning, almost vicious, waters. Here and there he could see slight erosion caused by the sea water and each crashing wave erupted into a fine mist which he could feel upon his face as he breathed in the heavy, salty air. It was peaceful – the sound lulling him into a fake sense of calm, which he had not felt since his arrival in the splendid coastal city.

Beyond his view the horizon expanded forever, the sky a rainbow of oranges, pinks and blues as the sun set along it slowly. To his left he could see the sparkling sandy beaches that made up the coast and behind him lay Antiva City - the glittering jewel of Thedas and Antiva's pride. As he turned to take in the distant city, the sea breeze ruffled graying red brown hair. He realized he felt more alone now than he had in ages.

He was glad though, that he had chosen this place as a meeting spot – Highever had was not a large town – and he was not used to the hustle and bustle of the bigger cities. Though used to traveling because of political reasons, he never found it pleasurable. He had been a great warrior during the Orlesian occupation, and a popular man (many had believed he should have been King instead of Cailan Theirin) but the truth was that Bryce Cousland would have rather planted his roots in Highever and stayed there forever. That was where his family had been, where his home was. Leaving there had been a mistake that he would pay for indefinitely. The Maker had punished him for his weak will and wandering eye.

The sound of the massive waves crashing against the heavy stone seawall broke his concentration, and once again Bryce was in awe with the splendor of nature. It distracted him from the reason for his visit. Fear of what was to come had stopped him many times in the past – but this time it had to be done. For the sake of his family name, and for the future. He had already destroyed too much by his mistakes and his lies. It was time to stand up to his past. And hence, he stood on the edges of the sea, turning away from Antiva City once more.

"They told me that the Teryn of Highever was to pay me a visit," said a deep voice behind Bryce, startling him. The accent was sharp and heavy.

Bryce turned from the hypnotic waves to face his companion. The taller man who had just arrived gave him a smile, his teeth white in the falling darkness.

"Your grace," he greeted, swooping down gracefully to the ground in respect.

Bryce felt a flutter of guilt in his stomach as he watched Renaldo Alfieri bow down before him.

"Rise, Ser." His voice caught in his throat. "There should be no formalities between us." He assured hurriedly.

There was a hint of a sour smile on Alfieri's face as he stood up to his full height – towering over Bryce.

"No, under the circumstances, there should not."

His silky voice held hints of disdain.

Bryce realized how the time had flown as he gazed upon Alfieri. The man still stood tall and regal, and his face was still tan and healthy, though now age was showing. But his dark hair and thick beard were still the same – age had not touched them. And his eyes – for a man with such dark coloring, Bryce had always wondered at the lightness of his eyes. They were the color of finest the coffee touched by cream, vivid and bright in a darkened face, just as Lucia's eyes were as radiant as sparkling jewels.

The sun had now set completely, leaving the world in a dusky blanket, and the sea beyond them faded into blackness. It left Bryce cold and lonely.

"It has been…a long time, Renaldo."

Hesitating for a moment, his voice trembled slightly.

"Time flies, or so they say."

"That it does."

Bryce was trying to find his courage.

Renaldo shifted, his black eyes glinting.

"I would be a fool to believe you would dare come see me for reason other than your daughter, your grace," he mocked. "So let me help you get to the point. I hear whisperings in my estate. The Blight threatens and your King has fallen in battle against the darkspawn, yes? His half brother is to take his place as the new monarch and your charming daughter is to be his new wife?"

The forthright words startled Bryce as he stared at the other man and what was more frightening was the vehemence and disgust behind them. He could only blink and Alfieri laughed.

"How well she has done for herself!" he exclaimed rather harshly. "I have no interest in your politics Cousland, but is not the coronation imminent?"

"It is, Ser, but the wedding will not be for some time yet. The king has much to deal with and bring to order before he takes on the duty of husband."

Alfieri watched Bryce with a strange keenness.

"I imagine not everyone is happy with your new successor?" he baited with glee.

Bryce cleared his throat.

"For someone who is not interested in Ferelden politics, you certainly know much."

"Ah, in my business one must know all the political dealings within many regions of Thedas, your grace. It is part of the job. Although I do admit, not the most interesting or even the most important," he finished.

Bryce sighed.

"It is as you speak. There is dissent now. Tension. But Alistair plans on facing it head on. He will make a good King. The Landsmeet has voted against the Queen's regent, and he has been slain."

"And so I hear!" he exclaimed with gusto. "And by your daughter's hand, yes? Quite the tenacious one you have there, your grace. She behaves like a man."

Each time the formal title was uttered Bryce could feel the mocking behind it. He swallowed vigorously. Alfieri's words were true – his daughter behaved more like a man than his own son did. He had never understood it himself, but he loved her fiercely.

"She has given up her life for the Grey Wardens to fight the Blight," he said with obvious pride. "Everything she has done has been for the betterment of her country. I could not be more proud of her."

His tone was touched with regret.

It was then that Alfieri, fluid like the dark shadows, leaned in towards Bryce's ear.

"She will continue to face opposition everywhere she goes, and yet she seems to be formidable amidst dissent."

There was a pause and then Alfieri whispered once again, this time his words a mockery. There was no mistaking the hatred that colored his words.

"Her _mother_ would have been proud."

Bryce felt his blood run cold at the tone. It spoke of things unsaid and hinted that Alfieri knew more than he would ever admit about the future of Ferelden. It whispered of revenge and hate and all the things that Bryce wished he could take back and do over but would never have the chance to.

He stood dead still staring out at the black, turbulent sea.

"I need to tell her, Renaldo," he croaked. "She deserves to know what happened to her mother – and she needs to know of her family. It was my mistake. I cannot punish her for it. Especially now – especially because she will be Queen."

The scent of brine tinged the air as Bryce took in a shuddering breath.

Alfieri threw back his head and laughed, though the sound held no mirth.

"Now, your grace?" he questioned as Bryce turned seeing the other man's eyes glittering dangerously. "She is about to claim the place of highest power in your country, no? You destroyed her life long before she was born. Would you take this away from her too?"

Bryce stood, shocked in place.

"Her place on the throne has been secured," he managed. "Her birthright matters no longer."

"No?"

He cocked his head, watching Bryce with interest. "What would your people say if they knew who her mother was, your grace? What would they say if they knew she was nothing more than a bar maid in the lowliest tavern in Antiva City?"

Bryce felt himself failing in word and thought. There was nothing more to say, was there?

Alfieri had plunged a dagger into his heart and began to twist it with his next words.

"Your indiscretion and stupidity have destroyed your family and caused your wife's untimely death. And now you seek to destroy your daughter as well? Bettina never meant anything to you, and she means nothing now."

Bryce could barely breathe, knowing this was not the truth. He had, at one time, loved Bettina Alfieri very much. But he would not argue with Renaldo Alfieri now – it would be too dangerous and terribly fruitless. Nothing could change the past.

"Do you not ever wonder, Renaldo?" questioned Bryce painfully. "What my daughter is like?"

The movement was like lightning and Bryce felt the sharp edge of Alfieri's blade against his neck – cold and hard.

"She is not mine," he hissed, murder and hatred in his voice. "Do not come here, to my country, and remind me of how you took to bed with my wife and produced a child. I will not hear it again, Bryce Cousland. And I will not have you come here and dredge it up once more! Be gone from here. You are not welcome!"

A silence fell on them filled only with the sound of the crashing waves.

"She deserves to know."

There was a snort of humorless laughter.

"My dear man, you deserved your throat slit for committing adultery with my wife, and yet, you still live. I care not what someone deserves, least of all that disgusting child of yours. You and your unfortunately dead wife made a pact with me a long time ago. You take the child, and leave of Antiva in return for my silence. I have held up my part of the bargain and yet your wife returned here, did she not?"

"And she paid with her life!" exclaimed Bryce tearfully. "How could someone have slain an innocent woman? She did not deserve it! She only wanted to help Lucia know who her family was! After all that time, all those years we thought she deserved to know!"

"You promised," replied Alfieri without emotion. "And you broke that promise. Perhaps the death of your wife was not enough of a reminder?"

He pressed the edge of the dagger harder against the skin of Bryce's neck.

"It would be a pleasure killing a disgusting swine like you," he raged, his tone trembling on the edge of a dark chasm from where he would not be able to return. "You destroyed my marriage. You shamed me as a man and a husband. You meddled in things you should not have and now you come to me and beg me to share my shame with the result of your disgusting acts with my wife? Never! I would see your filthy daughter fall at my feet and beg for her life as I slice her throat open and spill the blood of what you and my whore wife created! It is unfortunate that I will not have the pleasure to do so, but I can promise you that she is marked for death as surely as your own wife was when she returned here seeking to help your daughter."

Bryce closed his eyes, willing himself to accept death like a man, but he felt tears of shame and despair clouding his vision as he stumbled to his knees. He choked suddenly on the bitterness of them, wishing he could have said goodbye to his only daughter, the only living memory he had of a woman he should never have been able to love.

_I do deserve this, Maker help me. I deserve this. Lucia, if you find out what happened, forgive me. Please, forgive me. _

He could only hope if he did not live through this, that someone else would protect her from harm, keep her from Antiva City and away from this man.

He felt the terrible pull of fear and regret as his trembling hands came up to his face as he felt the blade pressing against his neck with more insistence, felt the pain. He swallowed, unmoving, listening to the waves as the crashed against the sea wall…

o-o

o-o

A few days later, a small missive set sail, destined for Ferelden….

_My Dearest Lucia,_

_It is with deepest regret that I write to tell you that I cannot make your future husband's coronation. Business has tied me up in the north and I simply cannot get away. I wish you and Alistair all the luck in the world and I hope that I will be there to share your joy when you exchange vows. _

_ Your regretful Father,_

_ Bryce_


	2. Chapter II

_Thanks everyone for the interest thus far – I really appreciate it. Here's the next installment. I debated whether or not to put it in, since it doesn't play a central role in the story, but it does give a little more insight into Renaldo's mind, I suppose. Someone has to take the blame for Zevran's failed mission, right? Stay tuned – next chapter we finally get to meet poor Zevran._

_Oh and of course, much thanks to my lovely betas Kira and Brelaina (ha, I got it right this time). They are so quick and oh so helpful! _

_LCailan_

* * *

><p>CHAPTER TWO<p>

o-o

_And the Devil did grin, _

_for his darling sin_

_is pride that apes humility._

_-Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

o-o

* * *

><p><em>Village of Amaranthin<em>_e_

o-o

Rendon Howe's eyes flashed with unbridled anger.

"You let the bitch live!"

He slammed his hands down on the large wooden table that was the only thing between himself and the Crow Master Alfieri – who was quite glad the table lay between them. The Antivan assassin stared, his tanned face expressionless. These Ferelden men had such little control over trivial emotions!

_This man was not shamed by another, forced to admit that his own wife did not find him good enough, and yet I handled Bryce Cousland better than __this fool handles a truly irrelevant snag of plans._

This non-response from Alfieri infuriated Howe further.

_How could this man – any man –__ have no reaction to what I am going through? This is about power! It is, or should have been, about seizing the throne! _

"I did not _let_ her live," countered the Crow. "You hired one of my assassins and I sent him to Ferelden. I was not the one who was there, so I do not know what happened. Surely, you would give me time to investigate, my Lord," he finished easily.

Howe's expression soured.

"Investigate? Is that what you want to do? While my country turns against me, and my well-laid plans crumble, you want to take time to investigate your worthless organization? I was told you were the best available! Could you not have completed this job easily and without trouble? The bitch is alive, she is putting Maric's bastard on the Ferelden throne, and it's all YOUR FAULT! Everything Loghain and I have worked so hard to accomplish – everything – came out in the open and his people turned against him! Fools, all of them!"

The Antivan took a step back, raising one black eyebrow, but he did not have time to reply for Howe began to scream once more.

"Do you know what your worthless assassin has done?" He managed to choke out, still in shock over what had happened.

He turned away from the desk, making sure that the Crow Master did not see his trembling hands. It would not do for anyone to know how serious the situation was now. Lucia Cousland was Howe's biggest threat. He had convinced himself that even Loghain – with his daughter on the throne – would not have posed a threat to his power.

_Loghain would have died eventually. If not by others, he would have been easily eliminated had I gathered enough power. __Anora does not possess royal blood – she would have been easy to dethrone. And Maric's son posed no threat – he would have done himself in. It is Lucia Cousland who is my biggest obstacle. She took the blade to Loghain and she is the one who protects the imbecile Alistair._

The thought captured him as he stared sightlessly out of the window facing the east side of the small estate. Beyond it there were glimpses of blue and gray – the sparkling waters of the Waking Sea. It was his hideout – a tiny unimpressive shack along the bluffs which faced the eternal waters. He was safe here – for the time being at least. Though the Maker only knew when they would finally connect him to Loghain's crimes and come after him. He knew all too well that Lucia would come for him sooner or later – she had slain his accomplice and put Alistair on the throne. The coronation was only weeks away. All his plans were slipping through his fingers like the fine white sands along the distant shoreline. As soon as she discovered that Loghain was not alone in his nefarious planning she would track him down. It was inevitable – he was all that stood between Alistair and a peaceful shift of power.

_If she does not perish battling the end of the Blight, she will come after me._

It had been his worst nightmare, the thing he had obsessed over since hiring Renaldo Alfieri, and it devastated him that not even the Antivan Crows had been able to stop her.

_Bitch! She is__ like a cockroach that one!_

He whirled to face Renaldo Alfieri once more.

"Do you know what this has done to me? Is she really impossible to assassinate? I was the most powerful man in Ferelden, did you know that? Do you understand our politics, Alfieri?"

He now sounded like the man he had been when Alfieri had first met him – slimy and conniving. That was exactly how he liked his men.

"I do not," he lied with a touch of smirk. "Though I understand there are two sides to every story," he continued with a raise of his eyebrow.

Howe took a step closer, and then another step. The smirk infuriated him, as did the words. "There are two sides - the right side and their side."

He moved around the massive wooden desk, face pale and alert, eyes bright, as if with fever.

"This disgusting fishing village was nothing until I came along," he breathed silkily. "As the Arl, it was I who made it prosper. I am the one who secured the arling within Denerim too, did you know that? Two Arlings secured! Do you know what that means in this country?"

There was a startling silence and then the tanned Antivan spoke.

"You Fereldans are strange…with your power and your land ownership. No comprendo…that is to say, I do not understand it."

The words and his self-righteous utterance caused Howe's insides twist with loathing.

"Two Arlings, Alfieri!" he raged. "Almost all of the north part of Ferelden! Why do you think I have been kissing Teryn Loghain's ass this whole time? Why do you think I have taken him into my confidence, talked with him, pushed that daughter of his on the throne alongside the late Cailan? He promised me the Terynir of Highever! So long as I helped him gain the throne, he promised me that none of the Couslands would be a threat to my power!"

He was breathing heavily as the repercussions of the failed assassination attempt fell on him once more. Without Loghain he was nothing. They had formed a nearly equally symbiotic relationship – Howe had needed Loghain and Loghain in turn, had needed Howe.

Howe had been the shield behind which Loghain hid while he hatched his most devious plans – it had been Howe who had planned the intricate detailing of the battle at Ostagar to ensure that Cailan would fail. In return, Loghain had helped Howe amass lands beyond those of any other noble, and land meant power in Ferelden. In addition to his title as Arl of Amaranthine, Loghain had helped Howe secure the arling of Denerim as well. And with Cailan's downfall, Loghain _would_ have taken the regency. Long ago, Loghain had promised Howe if ever he were to become regent to the throne he would help Howe eliminate Bryce Cousland and the rest of his family – naming him the Teryn in his wake.

_Amaranthine…Denerim…Highever…I WOULD have been the most powerful man in Ferelden! __Who knows what that kind of power could have afforded? I wouldn't have needed that half-cocked Loghain any longer – he was just a means to the end – to my ultimate power!_

He knew this –now that the Grey Wardens had taken care of Loghain, it was only a matter of time before someone came after him. He had been forced to relinquish his titles and disappear from Denerim. He had fled west – hiding out in Amaranthine until arrangements could be made for him to move out of Ferelden, even further west - perhaps Nevarra.

But Howe did not relish this and it filled him with bitter rage. As did the smug expression on the Crow's face. The assassin spoke in silky tones and his eyes sparkled with knowing.

"Bryce Cousland is no longer a threat, my Lord."

"I do not understand you," snarled Howe.

"An incapacitated man can no longer be a threat," suggested Renaldo with a raise of his black eyebrows. "You understand, yes?"

Howe's anger seemed to fade immediately, as if it was put on hold.

"What?" he managed to ask and for the first time his hopes were raised. "Are you saying that Bryce is dead?"

"I cannot say with any degree of certainty," replied Renaldo who still wore the same leering grin.

This made Howe groan in frustration.

"It is, as you say, a conflict of interest?"

Howe exploded.

"Damn you, Alfieri! He is either dead or he is not!"

But the Master assassin said nothing. Howe began to pace once more, his mind afire with new thoughts. If what the assassin had said was true – perhaps the Cousland bitch would be too busy with her grief and planning a funeral to worry about the political situation in Ferelden.

Perhaps she would see Alistair put on the throne, and then shift her attentions leaving the newly crowned king quite vulnerable – which opened up many new possibilities. Without Lucia Cousland, Alistair was as helpless as a newborn babe. After a moment of thought, Howe glanced up at Alfieri.

The assassin placed a small velvet bag on the large desk between them.

"One thousand sovereigns," he stated looking down at the bag of coin. "I never take money for a job that is incomplete."

He nodded towards the offering soberly.

"You are not, however, the only man who wants that _puta pendeja_ dead."

The statement, and the way with which it was said startled Howe initially, though he then turned his almond shaped eyes towards the assassin. The words, though foreign, held a hatred that made him shudder. Something passed between them in that moment – a dark understanding that it was himself of whom Alfieri spoke, and that Howe knew this to be true even though no one had uttered a word.

Howe reached for the bag and then stopped, his eyes gleaming with unspoken thoughts.

Renaldo's expression however did not change – he simply stared back unblinkingly.

"My Lord?" he prompted with a low bow.

Howe paused a moment, licking his lips.

"Keep the coin," he conceded. "In case you find the proper means and moment to do what I have asked you to do. She will marry the Theirin bastard and soon. If it is to be done, it must be done before she marries him and inherits the throne by law and noble birthright."

It was strange to see the Antivan man smirk and the strange flash in his eyes. Alfieri nearly found himself laughing.

_Noble birthright, indeed! The daughter of an Antivan commoner – her mother so shameful that her disgusting family kept the truth from her? Such hilarity. _

His large fingers wrapped around the black bag and tucked it back into his robes.

"It will be done, my Lord. I will find a way if I have to do it myself. She will not marry into royalty and her birthright will not even matter. I take the blame for the ineffectuality of the guild and I will do what I must to right the situation."

He did not want to have to do it, to tell the truth – but the girl would die either by the hand of another or by his own if all else failed.

Howe did not question the strange comment, stepping back and offering his hand once more in a truce. His eyes narrowed for a moment.

"There is one other matter concerning the soon to be King."

Howe's words were soft and he considered the assassin for a moment before continuing.

"I offer another thousand for his head as well. For never will Ferelden be riper for my rise to power as when their King falls once more."

Renaldo smiled.

"Indeed."

Then he began to laugh.


	3. Chapter III

_I want to thank everyone for still reading, and for the reviews and the adds. It means a lot to me. __Thank you also to my betas for catching one huge glaring mistake that I had already worked out in my mind but did not make clear to my readers. Shame on me._

_Here, we finally meet poor Zevran – and reveal the connection between him and Renaldo. If you have questions, please ask. Or perhaps they will be answered __down the line._

_LCailan_

* * *

><p><em>CHAPTER THREE<em>

* * *

><p><em>Part of every misery is,<em>

_so to speak, _

_the misery's shadow or reflection:_

_the fact that you don't merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. – C.S. Lewis_

* * *

><p><em>Antiva City – Renaldo Alfieri's dungeons<em>

_-o-_

He stood to stretch his legs, leaning against the slimy, moss covered walls of his cell and groaning as he worked knots out of each of his thighs. Every sodden inch of him hurt – down to the tips of his toes. There was no room in the prison cell to move and it was quite irritating really. Renaldo Alfieri had always kept his prisoners in places much too small for any real man to be locked within. It made no sense seeing as the man had more coin than most elves would ever see in their lifetime – he could certainly afford better accommodations for his prisoners.

_It is__ something to think about at least, no?_

Zevran Arainai could not recall how many weeks had passed since he had returned to Antiva City, and subsequently been shut off from the world and caged like some kind of degenerate prisoner. Imprisonment within these walls made it more difficult to keep track of the time – there was nothing here but slime, mold and dripping water. It was cold too. Colder than the Ferelden temperatures he had complained about for so long. And there were rats, mostly big ones with sharp teeth.

_These creatures are worthy of a man's fear indeed._

He groaned again, took a few steps across his empty cell and then lowered himself back down to the ground. He watched a particularly fat rat scurry across the wet, slippery stones on the other side of his cell and cringed with distaste. He put his head back, resting it against the damp wall, a strand of blond hair falling across his face unheeded. There was nothing to do in this forsaken place but think – and Zevran found he was doing too much of that.

He had failed – failed his Master and the Crows. This he knew for sure.

_Failed not just my Master, but my father. _

Each time he thought of this, it made him feel strange inside.

To be the only son of the Antivan Master of Crows was not something easily kept a secret, and yet all his life Zevran had done just that. He had never been treated differently – none of the others had ever been the wiser. Like the other assassins, Zevran had felt pain, anguish, fear, he had worked just as hard, and never had he believed Renaldo found him more special or more worthy simply because of the blood that connected them. Zevran would also pay like all the others who failed. He knew that somehow he would _have _to pay – for they all did.

The only thing he did _not_ know was why Renaldo had not slit his throat upon his immediate return to the city. This was most peculiar for it was what he had expected. Zevran knew his father, and the man never spared a life apart from the necessity.

No, instead, Renaldo had been eerily calm – and had simply ordered his former apprentice and son caged. For how long he had never been told – and it seemed to the assassin that he had been imprisoned for a time immemorial. He was grateful, however, to Renaldo because Zevran did not relish death (at least not any longer) – and the Crow Master had allowed him to live.

_But why?__ Is it because I am his son? _

It was a disconcerting thought as Zevran knew that a Crow never did anything without a price. He belonged to Renaldo in every way, by guild and by blood – and crossing him would not come at a cheap price for it was a double betrayal. He knew his father and the violence he had been capable of in the past, violence which Zevran had wholly embraced as well – but the deepest part of him hoped, truly hoped that there was a _reason _for everything his father had done.

_Perhaps like me, he had no c__hoice? Had this life been thrust upon him as welll? Was ut just the need to survive? Justified killing? _

In any case, Zevran had indeed failed.

He had been sent to Ferelden on a mission – and the one marked still lived.

_Perhaps I did not as much fail as I chose…__ not to complete._

Either way, any other Crow would have been dead already for Renaldo cared little for the small technicalities.

Dropping his head, Zevran stared thoughtfully at his hands, seeing the familiar shape of his fingers and the faint markings of battle scars marring his skin like memories.

_Why did I not kill her when I should have?__ I should have set up ambush from the start, had it done with right away._

A pair of startling emerald eyes flashed across his conscience for one bittersweet moment – and the image stirred him just as it had when he had first looked upon her so many months ago. Seeing her had been the beginning of his downfall – and to think! A woman, of all things. He should have known better. As he shuddered slightly, his Father's voice whispered in his mind once more.

_"To Ferelden, Zevran. Her name is Lucia Cousland and she is a Grey Warden. Her goal to defeat the archdemon threatens __Ferelden's political future. Our client wishes her...eliminated before she gains enough influence within their government to put a new king on their throne. The wrong king, apparently. Though I do not care for political talk, least of all in a cesspool like Ferelden, he has offered a great price for her head…"_

He would never forget the look on his father's face, the gleeful hunger and the bloodless smirk as he had said those things, as if this assassination meant more to him than the others.

Zevran stood again, frustrated now, and he began to pace his cell like a wild animal eager to escape.

_I am an assassin! One of the best in Antiva City – even al__l of Antiva. I live to kill!_

He was bitter, irritated with Antiva, his past and his lot in life. His fists clenched as he grabbed the bars of his prison.

_Antiva City__…the gem of Thedas. _

What a bunch of rubbish that was. She did indeed _look_ like a splendidly sparkling gem. She was pastel colored skies with marshmallow clouds and sparkling sands that lined blue seas spanning an eternal horizon. She was balmy breezes rich with the scents of the sea and of spices. She was laughter, joyous music, frivolity and decadent foods. She was as fresh as a virgin's first blush and as old as the elders. Her nights were sultry and heavy with seduction. Her days were bright and full of hope.

And within that sparkling gem lay the life Zevran had known.

_You, my dearest Antiva City, are only as lovely as the rotting decay of northeastern civilizatio__n that lives just below your pristine outer beauty._

Antiva City was beautiful and she was admired, but she desperately hid secrets of those who were the downtrodden, lost, forsaken and forever trapped within her run down, dirty, death-ridden streets.

In spite of this, he, the son of a Dalish born Antivan whore, had risen to the ranks of the most feared in Antiva – the Crows. He had at first stumbled through those long forgotten back alleys and streets with their stink of death, destruction, piss and ale as a forsaken little boy. It had been Renaldo Alfieri who had saved him from his certain death when he had bought him from his mother's whorehouse in the eastern district. The Crow Master had taught Zevran to make his mark as a most promising of Crow apprentices and then finally as one of its most famed members. No more would he be called a flea infested dirty little elf. No more would he have to cower before humans because he was not equal to them. It was only the cherry on top of the proverbial sundae that his master had turned out to be his father as well.

The scars never went away – Zevran was living proof of this. He would forever be branded with faint scars of a multitude of beatings and tortures he had endured. But the Crows had given him a chance to fight back, to gain his equality – at least in one way. He had taken his vengeance and created this most coveted equality with a dagger, ripping through flesh effortlessly and spilling blood upon the ground with no remorse. It was simply payback for all the pain and abuse in his past. After all, some people required killing. It was that simple, plus revenge did taste quite sweet. He had slain commoners, nobles, men and women, shop owners and even three Orlesian chevaliers in one night! He had assisted in poisoning an Antivan prince! Only a few were as quick and nimble on foot and with a blade as he - and yet – a woman had been his undoing.

A bitter chuckle escaped him.

Stories were told of men who fell at women's feet – and it was sad to say that he was one of those men. Zevran was, however, a man who was quick to defend his own actions even be they unsavory. And so as he pictured those eyes once more, he sighed in contentment.

It had been a woman – _but oh_ – what a _woman!_

Zevran had slain many women in his time – beautiful and homely, quiet and outspoken, weak and strong, noble and commoner. Women who had charmed him and wined him, danced for him, and seduced him. But none had captured him quite like the Grey Warden. She was captivating in more ways than one – and that was without mention of the fact that she was storybook beautiful.

At the thought, Zevran sighed with satisfaction.

Thick curls as vivid and wild as fire had framed a porcelain perfect face marked only with a smattering of freckles like stars scattered along the skies. And those eyes! It had been difficult to remember his purpose when those eyes had turned on him, glowing impishly or shining with tenderness or happiness. It had been so easy to forget that she had been marked for death when that lilting laughter rang out into the fire lit nights he spent in camp with her as she talked of her past and her future and everything in between.

Yes, she was the one he should never have desired.

Lucia had been more than heart-stoppingly beautiful (though clearly Zevran had not minded that part). Killing a woman with a beautiful face was not difficult. No – it was more than just that. She had been more than what she seemed – a woman as small and delicate looking should not have been such a tank on the battlefield. But Lucia Cousland had wielded a sword and dagger better than half the male comrades he had known in his life. And that made her more desirable, simply because she was his equal.

The Crows had helped him find her – Ferelden was a huge country abundant with lush forests, frosty blue and purple mountains, arid landscapes and splendid cities. To find a woman in such a country would have been impossible save for his skills and the help of his brothers. They had been traveling along what Ferelden citizens called the Imperial highway towards the Brecilian Forest to meet with (ironically) the Dalish when Zevran had stumbled upon them.

_One beautiful woman and her ragtag entourage._

It had been quite amusing though Zevran had never uttered a laugh. He had playfully and conversationally ingratiated himself within them without stating his true purpose. Lies fell from his lips like a breathtaking waterfall, and because he was such a _good_ conniver and liar no one had been the wiser.

He had become the silver tongued snake that had slithered within their group; the secret enemy amongst them.

_Slaying a Grey Warden will be no easy task, my Zevran. But you...you know the dance of death, do you not?_

The smooth, deep voice of his father broke into Zevran's more fevered thoughts. He could almost see the Master's smile of glee.

Yes – the dance of death.

Zevran bowed his head again, thinking of Taliesen and of Rinna.

_Oh Rinna! _

What a dance _that_ had been! It was because of Rinna that he was in his current situation. Perhaps not because of her – but because of her death. Lucia Cousland had been a formidable mark. To assassinate her and those she traveled with would have meant Crow fame or an untimely death.

He had voted for the latter quite easily. After Rinna's death his life had meant nothing to Zevran any longer.

Yes, a torn, deadened heart had still been beating within his body, but he had stopped living with the last breath Rinna had taken. He had begun wishing for death – perhaps even hoping. It would have been a respite, the sweetest of blessings (and those did not come often, quite honestly). Zevran had wanted to seal his fate – a death equal to the one Taliesen had dealt when Rinna fell at his feet, bleeding out into the hot parched dust.

_And I had laughed at her, spat__ in her face – I the man who had loved her more than life itself. She had died believing I hated her._

Zevran shuddered, his lips trembling with emotion he refused to feel. He managed a slight choking sound.

The mission had been quite simple.

Assassinate the Grey Wardens of Ferelden for his Father or die trying. He had already made his choice.

He should have known – should have learned –the hard, cruel lesson imparted on him by Rinna before her untimely demise – that there was no room in the life of an assassin for feelings. They were fleeting in a world that was gray and dark and although Zevran took his pleasures where he could find them, never turning away a good drink, delicious bite, or the company of a man or woman he fancied, but he had always been careful of allowing feelings of any kind.

That was…until Rinna.

She had awakened more than desire in him, more than just cheap sensation. She had been his first love. And a whole sodden lot of good it had done him in the end. He had told himself a thousand times, a thousand and ONE times that he would never again feel that way for anyone as it brought him no benefit. He was an assassin. He did not feel - he simply acted.

And then….there had been Lucia.

In spite of his fight against everything Zevran knew was wrong – still something about the Grey Warden had captured his interest, and she refused to let him go. _Why it was he did not know for sure, although Zevran could have come up with more than one reason._

Perhaps it was that in Lucia Cousland he had discovered a part of himself. Given to the task at hand, he had fought alongside her, playing the ally as he waited for her to let her guard down. He had played her friend. There had been time abounding during which he had learned about her. She was tenacious on the battlefield and wielded strength as a leader. She was infuriatingly (and therefore very much alluringly) stubborn. She was smart, quick, and moved without hesitation. She accepted what came without faltering and she made choices so quickly that often times she made mistakes. Mistakes that she easily took ownership for and instead of bemoaning those choices, she simply corrected them and moved on.

And oh, she was feisty! Her tongue was as sharp as her sword and she spoke without thinking which was quite delightful. Her language was not that of a lady – and in this way too – she was not what she appeared to be. Zevran had learned in their travels (from some very loose lipped companions) that Lucia was the only daughter of one of the highest nobility in Ferelden. In fact, her father was the footstool to the throne. This meant that she had been bred as a lady, taught how to talk, walk and act as such. It was much more interesting then, that she was undeniably not a lady – and equally matched against any man. Here was a woman who was willing to fight, think, talk and rival all other men.

This to Zevran was incredibly attractive.

Her impressive skills she had learned from her mother and she later revealed to him of her untimely death – for which she had not yet had closure. It turned out that the woman had fallen by the blade of one of his own – a Crow. It was ironic to him then that she had unknowingly revealed this to him since he himself was also a Crow.

To this day in the prison cell, Zevran wondered who had slain Teryna Cousland and what man had wanted her dead. But as always, he had never asked questions.

During their time together, Lucia had fought with feeling unequal to her male counterparts and her brother – and she had resented her father for his inability to trust her to handle the dark truths of her mother's death even though it was abundantly clear that she could. He learned that she was a woman given an impossible task and yet she accepted and flourished as she moved to complete it.

Zevran sighed, listening to the nearby dripping from the ceiling. Thinking of Lucia over the last several weeks had done nothing for him and yet – here he was once again.

He had loved Rinna; this was the truth. He had admired her, conspired with her, made love to her, and then had allowed her destruction. With Rinna it had been like a bolt of lighting - sudden, heart stopping, and electrifying. Love had been a sudden, sweet pain. With Lucia Cousland love had come softly, like the sweetest seduction, overwhelming him only after it was too late.

It had been as amazingly beautiful as it was impossible. And yet, he had hoped…

Hope. That had been his mother's favorite word. Could it have been so? Lucia had awoken hope in his black heart? Maker forbid it.

Zevran did not know when things had changed. He did not know when his admiration at her fighting skills had turned into furtive, longing gazes at her lithe body and the way she turned and twisted in the throes of battle like a dancer, her glorious hair falling freely around her. He could no longer recall when he had started spending his evenings near her tent, telling her of (certain) parts of his life whilst she listened and then told him of her life. He did not remember when he had stopped laughing at Alistair's awkward advances towards her and begun brooding because there was a nasty, jealous twisting in the pit of his stomach that he had taken great care to hide. And when had he realized that he found her amazingly beautiful – that he had found her thus from the very beginning? How was it that he deemed himself smart and yet he had been so blind until it was too late? Lucia had rekindled life within his long dead heart, reminding him of how it felt to be a man once more. The irony was bitter to swallow – that it was this woman – the woman he was to kill – who had brought him back to life unbeknownst to them both.

He had allowed himself his unspoken feelings – for that was the most he could have. He, the master of seduction. It seemed preposterous to not say a word, but Zevran never had. After all, if stripped from the heavy burden she had accepted, and cleaned of the Grey Warden taint in her body and soul, she was of nobility. The daughter of a Teryn and therefore a woman of power meant for great things. Once she was finished fighting the Blight she would return home and take up other noble – for lack of a better term – tasks.

And he was nothing, indeed. A lowly city elf – disgusting flea infested flat ear – as the humans had liked to call him. In Ferelden, whilst playing the assassin he had been something at least. But now, home in the lovely sweltering heat of Antiva – he was nothing to a noblewoman. Perhaps even less than the dirt beneath her dainty little boots.

_I should have taken her life as I had been ordered. What of love if I am alone and imprisoned now? When did I become like this – when did I choose this? Here I am imprisoned and for what?_

Another well fed rat rushed across the cell, closer to him this time and Zevran almost killed it – in the end not wanting to put forth the effort. Sighing he looked up along the damp walls of his prison at the small window along the top which let in the meager afternoon sunlight.

It was then that the far door of the vast room in the dungeon opened, the sound echoing across the vast, darkened space. Zevran did not move, assuming it was simply his one daily meal being brought to him as usual. He waited for the tell tale sound of metal tin being placed on the cold stone by his cell. Strangely, it did not come, and the blond assassin turned his head to look.

The man who stood on the other side of the bars had a round, tanned face and large black eyes which gave him a look reminiscent of a well fed calf. His ruddy face was framed by thick black curls that fell into his eyes, and his nose was pudgy and as round as his face. A single fresh tattoo ran down his temple and along his full cheek. He was young – Zevran could not be certain of his age – and in spite of all his small imperfections he was innocently beautiful.

Zevran could see the jeweled hilt of a new dagger sheathed at the boy's side, which was a sign of full Crow membership.

Zevran found it quite befitting the boy – for in spite of the permanent stupid expression on his face – Antonio Felsi was incredibly skilled, especially with small daggers. Perhaps that was what made him such a good assassin – the mark did not expect the boy to be so lethal for he certainly did not _look_ so.

"Antonio! My friend, I have not seen you in months!"

Zevran stood to face the boy in a sprightly manner, a smile lighting up his much paler face. It was Zevran's nature to be as charming as possible – with everyone.

Antonio, however, did not share such enthusiasm. Pity, it was.

"You have been away, si?"

His tone was higher pitched than expected from a boy his size and build.

"On a mission, alas," replied Zevran, refusing to elaborate more even though he could see the spark of hunger in Antonio's eyes. "I thought you were my supper," he continued conversationally, offering a light laugh. "Glad I am to see you, my friend."

"Indeed."

Antonio's reply was reserved as his black eyes roamed the cell with curiosity.

Zevran found himself being scrutinized as well – and once again he felt like a caged animal with no place to escape. He could not call many people his friends – the Crows did not befriend each other under normal circumstances – and besides Taliesen, Antonio was the closest thing he had to a friend. They would have been much closer save for the jealousy that Antonio had always exhibited around Zevran, which quickly got rather old. It was as if the younger Crow was always trying to do something better, faster, more ingeniously than Zevran himself, and their conquests had become proverbial pissing matches.

Zevran hated them. Even now, Antonio surveyed Zevran with suspicion.

"What did you do to end up in the cell?" he questioned.

Zevran only laughed.

"I do not know myself! If I failed the Master, I would be dead, yes? My mission did not go as planned, perhaps that is it."

Antonio nodded.

"You? Botching up a mission? Does that happen to the _great_ Zevran?"

The boy's words were sour and his round eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion.

"Assuredly it has and does."

The blond Crow offered up a charming smile that lit up his eyes and masked any deception. His tone was like velvet.

"And to what reason do I owe the honor of your presence?"

Antonio grew visibly uncomfortable, his cheeks turning pink as he looked away, clearing his throat.

"The Master wishes to see you. I was sent to bring you to him."

He spoke rather gruffly and held up a silver key which he placed into the lock to open the barred cell door. He moved his large body so that the elf could pass and a long silence ensued causing Zevran to grow unusually antsy, but he thought it best to keep the conversation flowing. His eyes moved to the dagger sheathed at Antonio's fleshy hip.

"I see you are no longer an apprentice, yes? That is a splendid dagger indeed."

This time, Antonio flushed with pride, his black eyes sparkling like two onyx gems.

"Only just last month! The Master was proud! I do need some work with my sword, but he states that there is no one who wields a dagger quite like I do," he was quick to say – as if this too, was a competition.

Zevran hid his annoyance by a bright smile.

"And he is correct, my friend! You are quite skilled."

Perhaps it was not what the curly haired Crow had expected, for he was flustered into a tense silence.

"Come then," he finally said, motioning towards the long hall beyond the metal door which would lead out of the dungeons into the light.

Antonio went first and Zevran, quite curiously, followed.


	4. Chapter IV

_If you have made it this far, thank you! Let me know what you think. I added this chapter to give more insight into why Bryce did the things he did – the next chapter introduces our Warden!_

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><p><strong>CHAPTER FOUR<strong>

_From the heart of the fountain of delight rises a jet of bitterness that tortures us among the very flowers. - Lucretius_

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><p>Bryce Cousland stirred awake his first conscious thought being that he could no longer hear the crash of waves against rock.<p>

_Maker's breath, everything hurts._

His second thought was of the pain that seemed to accompany his ever attempted movement – not that there was much of that to be had, for he realized immediately that he was mostly immobile. His eyes flew open and with a weak gasp he looked around. Nothing seemed familiar about this place. It was dark and wet, the air heavy with rain and molding earth.

_Am I still in Antiva?_

This he could not answer any better than he could gauge how long he had been unconscious, but Bryce was keenly aware of the last thing he remembered before waking up imprisoned.

_Renaldo Alfieri. I should be dead._

His eyes moved about his small prison and once more he tried to shift himself, and his body screamed in protest, every one of his limbs and muscles wracked with pain. His left thigh cramped in excruciating pain and the man let out a painful moan. It echoed strangely in the space around him. Bryce stopped moving then and this time his eyes moved upwards to see that his hands were bound together with some sort of rough twine – held up over his head so that he could hardly feel his fingers. His back hurt from being propped up in the same position for Maker knew how long, and besides that he was sharply aware that he had been beaten – it was evident in his difficulty breathing and the pain that accompanied any slight movement.

He saw in his mind's eye the mask of hatred on Alfieri's face and it sent a frisson of fear down his aching spine. He would forever associate Alfieri's face with the epitome of hatred – for he had seen it too many times in the elven assassin's face over the years.

_T__ake the babe. Take her and your wife and get out of Antiva City. I warn you Teyrn Cousland you are not in Ferelden. This is Antiva – this is my country and I rule here. I never want to hear of you and your family again, do you understand? I offer you mercy even though I should murder you for what you did with my wife. But do not make light of this Your Grace. I will only give you this one chance. If I am ever reminded of what transpired this last year, you will be sorry…_

The words still managed to give him chills even decades later. Decades of guilt and fear and pain – pain because he knew that Eleanor had died as consequence of his actions. She had been a good wife, true and honest and loyal even though he had deserved none of such trappings. She had accepted and loved Lucia like her own and had it been wrong of her to want the best for their child? Had it been so wrong to desire that Lucia know the truth?

_I should have warned her more often, told her never to come to Antiva, never to try and speak with Alfieri – he is a madman._

There was the sound of nearby running water and somewhere in the darkness there were footsteps, voice muted by distance, a cough. Then silence.

_Where am I? Why did he not kill me?_

He would have welcomed death, for some things were worse. The everlasting guilt he felt, the fear, the confusion…

There was a sound from above him, a distant scraping sound as if of metal against stone and then all was silent save for the dripping of water nearby. Sighing Bryce stopped the struggle against his bonds and let his aching body fall limp. He was uncertain if seeing Renaldo again was the trigger, or if it was something else, but he found himself once more thinking on his time in Antiva City with bitter regret, and eyes as green as emeralds haunted him once more.

_Bettina._

It had been much too long since Bryce had last allowed himself to think of the woman whom he should never have wanted. A groan escaped him once more as the chains clanked against the stone wall that held him prisoner.

_Renaldo is wrong. I did love her – I loved her unlike I have ever loved anyone, even Eleanor._

This thought was as guilty as it was beautiful, for Bryce knew it to be true even if it should not have been.

Even now in this dismal place the memory of her brilliant smile warmed him. The way she had entranced every male patron within _The Weeping Griffon_ had been magic, even though she had possessed no magical abilities. Everything from the bright muslin skirt to the matching scarf in her bright red hair had captured Bryce. Perhaps it had not been love at first sight, but love had come more quickly than he had ever imagined it could.

_My Lady, yours is a smile that every woman in this city must envy!_

He recalled this banter as one of the first things he had ever said to her when she had served him his supper on his first night in Antiva City so many years ago. The unnamed lass had blushed, which had only added to her allure and then a laugh as lovely as the sweetest song had escaped her.

_You shouldn't say such flattering things, Ser! __You make me blush and my husband is a jealous man._

Bryce stared down at the ground miserably. There it had been – truer words had not been uttered about a man Bryce had not yet known but would one day be sorry he had met.

He had not struck up the conversation intending anything further than a companionship during his supper.

He had not had any lascivious desires for her – and yet…

Bryce had taken his supper at the _Griffon_ the next three nights; all in hopes of seeing her lovely smile once more. That last night it had rained heavily and he had offered the lass a ride home in the carriage he had been afforded at the start of his trip. She had accepted with a smile and he had admired the way the raindrops had looked like diamonds in her fiery red hair.

Bryce recalled now that she had not given him her name even when he had asked after it with politeness that veiled burgeoning interest – but he had found business in Antiva City once more.

On that second trip, she had revealed her name.

_Bettina._

Somehow he had not been surprised – for the name was as lovely as the woman who bore it. He had taken his meals at the _Griffon _once again and finding the Tavern where he had been renting a room was full, Bettina had offered to find him a room at the _Griffon. _He had accepted without ever thinking of the implications, for he could tell that her offer was innocent and sincere. And she made it too easy to forget consequences.

So their relationship had started. Then – it had been something exciting and new for Bryce. Something he had never experienced for Eleanor had been brought up amongst nobility, bred to be a fine lady and a woman whom any nobleman would have been proud to call a wife. She had known the trappings of wealth and how to behave, what to say how to act – she had been all things expected. Lovely and true, faithful and well learned and bred, yet still…expected.

Bettina on the other hand – there was something free, something uninhibited about her. Was it the fact that she had been completely comfortable in her common origins? Or that she was fiercely proud of the job she held at the _Griffon _for in those times and in a country like Antiva women did not work? Whatever it was, Bryce had found himself more than simply enamored with her – Bettina had become his home away from home, his secret fancy, and sometimes even the one he thought of when he was far from Antiva and in the arms of a completely different woman.

_Yes, I did love her. I should never have loved her the way I did. That love destroyed her and it caused my wife's untimely death._

The great burden of guilt was so heavy that Bryce thought he would break from it and shuddering he closed his eyes, warring with tears that refused to come. He let out a choked sound.

Just when he believed that haunting memories would be his undoing, there was a sound from somewhere on his left and the beaten down Teryn looked up, startled.

"You are awake, yes?"

The man seemed to float into view, as if materializing from the shadows around him, and his eyes sparkled for a moment, a sugar cyanide smile grazing his full lips. The words were pleasant – almost kind – but Bryce knew better.

The Crow Master wore a robe of blues and reds. A jewel sparkled on one of his thin fingers as they wrapped around the bars of Bryce's cell. There was a silence before the Master spoke.

"I hope you have not been too…uncomfortable?"

Patronizing, those words were, and cold. Bryce swallowed twice before he was able to croak out any sensible response.

"Renaldo."

Bryce saw the assassin's smile grow into a grin – as if he were socializing with someone who's company he enjoyed. He cocked his head, and this time Bryce could see the flash of gold in one of his pointed ears.

"I ordered them to make sure they did not touch your face. You have quite the handsome face, Your Grace. I would hate to see such a beauty marred, no?"

Bryce grimaced as a ripple of pain shot through his calves when he tried to shift up against the wall.

"I thought you would have killed me."

His plaintive gaze matched his words. Renaldo let out a peal of laughter.

"And why would I do such a thing, Your Grace? When I know it is what you desire and I can glean no benefits were I to do it right now?"

Bryce could not answer the questions the other man had uttered so innocently. Instead he lowered his head in defeat for he knew he was at Renaldo's mercy. The assassin stepped closer to Bryce's prison.

"I hear word from the south, Your Grace. The Archdemon has shown itself. It is then a true Blight, yes? The Grey Wardens head to Denerim."

Bryce's head shot up so quickly he had forgotten his position and a burning pain ripped down his back causing him to whimper and fight against his bonds for a moment. Renaldo only smiled tolerantly.

"Your daughter may be a hero! Is that not what Grey Wardens do? Die to save their country and people?"

His words were soft and his eyes bright with something Bryce could not identify.

"At least you sent the letter, yes? She knows you will not be at the coronation and at her wedding, which is quite unfortunate."

"I never sent that letter! That was you!"

It was the first and only exertion that came from Bryce as his eyes flashed in Renaldo's direction. The assassin offered a smile that mocked tenderness.

"What kind of father would you be, Your Grace, if you did not send word of your dalliance? She would worry, would she not? I was only trying to help."

Bryce swallowed, the huge lump in his throat making it difficult to breathe, and he could barely whisper, even such a sound was strained.

"You should just let me die."

Renaldo ignored this plea only watching Bryce all the more closely.

"Perhaps you will not have to worry about that letter. Fighting the Archdemon is nasty business is it not? I hope she dies, Your Grace."

His smile turned into a leer as his fingers tightened their grip on the iron bars of the prison.

"I hope she dies and you have to hear about it. I hope she dies and saves me the hassle."

The tears that Bryce had not been able to cry filled his eyes, the burning just as unbearable as the strain on his beaten body.

"She never did anything to you."

The words were broken, pleading. The assassin remained stoic, his coffee eyes watching Bryce with interest.

"I will not be the one to kill her. I have contacts in Ferelden, Your Grace. And a fair price for her head, which I must admit is quite fortuitous. You remember I mentioned my knowledge of dissent among those who would rather die than see the soon to be King take the throne? Your daughter has meddled in things far beyond those either of us can control. She is wanted dead. Should I deny my similar desire?"

The elf smiled once more and that macabre face that had haunted many of Bryce's nightmares, some that he had shared with his daughter as warnings, made him turn away with a whimper.

"It is after all, just a job, no? Ah, but better it would be that she die a hero, attempting to slay the Archdemon. Perhaps you ought to pray for that because praying for her life to be saved is fruitless now."

Bryce let out a thick cough as he battled with his complete breakdown lifting his weary head once more.

"I wish…to see her Renaldo. Just once if you would…"

He could not finish his sentence but the assassin seemed untouched, his face never changing.

"And I wish you and I had never met, and that you had not disgustingly lain with my wife, but alas it was not to be."

Finally Bryce lowered his head in defeat, saying nothing more. The assassin's silky voice rang out in the small dungeon.

"I apologize for the meager accommodations, Your Grace, but I had no space closer to the city. You will be moved shortly. And I apologize for the severe beating, I had not intended thus, simply wanting them to inflict a gentle reminder that if you do leave Antiva City alive by some chance that you never come here again. Unfortunately, some of my apprentices can be quite…overeager."

The smile was mocking and it faded, leaving behind a glitter of hatred.

"Goodbye."

Bryce watched in helplessness as the man slinked back into the shadows from where he had come.


	5. Chapter V

_I want to thank once more my two amazing betas - hugs girls! And thank you so much for the new reviews and for all those kind enough to let me know either way how I'm doing. I can't express my thanks enough. Finally, here we meet my Warden and Alistair!_

_LCailan  
><em>

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><p><strong>CHAPTER FIVE<strong>

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><p><em>He's everything you want<br>He's everything you need  
>He says all the right things<br>At exactly the right time  
>But he means nothing to you<br>And you don't know why _

_-Vertical Horizon_

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><p><em>Arl Eamon's Estate – eve of the Final Battle<em>

Lucia fell back against the softness of the pillows on Alistair's bed and felt the wild hammering of his heart as he buried his face against her neck. Funny, how it was so easy to forget the creature comforts of life – even if you had been raised in wealth. She had known down pillows and silk sheets, heavy comforters and fragrant bath water all her life. But it had taken only a short while and the Blight to make her forget.

Now, even these moments, spent in his arms, in his bed – though it was Eamon's estate, seemed foreign to her.

Alistair whispered something into her neck and she stroked his back, running her hands along the familiar and muscular planes of his body. Something was different that night – and it wasn't just the fact that he had lain with Morrigan.

_That's part of it._

She felt…well, whatever this feeling was, it was unsettling. It made her restless, feverish. Was it that she had just allowed her future husband to lay with another woman? Or was it that tonight – if everything they had worked towards and set in place failed horribly – would be their last night together?

_I don't know!_

Sighing, she allowed Alistair to snuggle in against her body, feeling his warmth envelop her in a false sense of security. His touch and scent were as familiar to her as the look in his soft brown eyes the moment she smiled up at him. Her fingers stroked his face and tangled themselves in the softness of his hair, and Lucia was struck by how intimate this moment was – how all these moments were. She had never been loved the way Alistair loved her. She had never known this devotion, this depth of trust. She had never allowed any man to know her the way the one in her arms did.

"Al," she whispered softly, resting her head against his shoulder, kissing the crook of his arm before she settled there, and then allowed herself a silent moment to listen to his breathing.

Maybe she was simply over analyzing what had happened that night – or maybe it was the battle to come. His role, her role, how she no longer felt equal to him, and that there was nothing she could do. Lucia had agreed to be Queen, allowed him to name her as his future wife, and accepted the fact that she was no longer his battle mate. She was now his bedmate, and the soon to be mother of his children; all the things that her family had hoped she would be eventually – and the things that Lucia had never truly _wanted _for herself.

_The Queen of Ferelden. An honor none of the Couslands have ever been granted – and look at me! Will this be good enough? Will I finally be __something-?_

No.

_I have to stop thinking about my family this way!_

She stopped that endless train of thought for most of the time when she thought of her family the pain at the end was too much for her to handle. Her eyes fluttered open in silent frustration, and she could see the window of this room as it looked out on the darkened landscape below them. It seemed to stretch out over a never-ending black and navy horizon.

She saw none of it, however, for her mind was on a matter much more pressing. She hardly felt the gentleness of the fingers that moved messy strands of fiery red hair away from her forehead.

Somehow she had thought once the Landsmeet was over, and her destiny clear – that everything would fall into place. Maker knew that she deserved it. Her journey thus far had been peppered with nothing but tragedy and pain, loss and weariness. The only bright spots had been finding Alistair and…

No. She wouldn't think of him now. There was nothing to think about, for the betrayal she felt was much too great even though it had been months since it had happened. It was strange really, thinking of him now, when she hadn't had the inkling to do so since she had run him out of camp.

_Stupid sodding elf. I hate himIhatehimIhatehim-_

She felt the soft touch of Alistair's fingertips moving slowly up and down her bare arm, and it was this that caused her to snuggle back against him more closely, with barely veiled desperation.

_Take this away, Alistair. Make it better, please, make it better. Why am I feeling like this now of all times? _

"It's what happened tonight, isn't it?" murmured close to her ear, causing her to frown. "Something's different."

"Alistair, please," she managed to say, unable to move.

She couldn't look at him and wanted to run back to her own chambers so she wouldn't have to. There was an edge to his voice, a sadness that colored it and Lucia knew she wouldn't be able to put his mind at ease. It made her feel guilty, all of it really – the anger over Morrigan and being left behind in the castle while he was going to fight the Archdemon on his own, and now her thoughts about Zevran.

_Sodding Zevran. Stupid, conceited, traitorous bastard Zevran. _

The one man she never wanted to call by name, and certainly never wanted to think of again. Not when there were so many other things to think about! Alistair's coronation was imminent, and after it, their wedding was soon to follow. She was going to be Queen, and this, she hoped would give her a whole new set of things to focus on. Her father would finally come to Denerim when everything was over- and she had not seen him since leaving Castle Highever. And her brother – how she missed him, and most especially his laugh that had made life so much easier.

She couldn't wait to see her family, now that she had finally made something of herself. Now they wouldn't look at her strangely or in the patronizing way they had in the past.

As a child, she had been a tomboy.

As a young girl – unruly and rambunctious.

As a young lady – too tenacious and outspoken.

And now, well, they couldn't say a thing, could they? She was a Grey sodding Warden and soon to be queen to boot. So there – who cared if she had been just a little different? Maybe now they'd finally see her as their equal.

Shifting under the blankets, Lucia frowned as the old familiar feeling of being just shy of acceptance filled her. Queenly responsibilities, a whole country to run and to serve, and her family's full approval – it was what every women wanted, right? Lucia didn't understand her own feelings of uncertainty...especially the faint nagging at the back of her mind that something wasn't quite right. Her warring emotions filled her body and her heart, confusing her…and making rational thought impossible.

Behind her, Alistair sighed.

"When you get upset, you get quiet," he reminded her. "So I assume you're angry with me then? About Morrigan?" he asked, the worry marring his tone, and Lucia wanted to scream.

It wasn't fair that she was angry and irritated and a plethora of other emotions that she wanted to share with him, but couldn't. Frustrated with herself, she pulled away from him and flung herself on her back, her red hair spreading along the ivory pillow like a wildfire. She felt him do the same and could see in her mind's eye the pout that was bound to be on his shapely mouth – he wore it often during troubling situations.

"I didn't want to, you know," he grumbled.

"With Morrigan?"

"I hated every second, I swear."

His voice mirrored what Lucia imagined was horror.

"Did you?" she asked with muted mirth.

"Remember when we in the deep roads and we had to fight the broodmother?"

"What's the broodmother got to do with this?"

"I thought the broodmother was the most horrific…thing…creature I had ever come face to face with. And then I saw Morrigan without her clothes."

Lucia turned her head on the pillow to look at him, but she could only muster a surprised laugh. He returned that laugh with a smile that warmed his eyes.

"At least I got you to laugh."

He took her hand, sobering a moment.

"Lucia, didn't we both decide it was the best thing? That if I...I lay with her that neither of us would have to die? I know it was selfish, I know! But I couldn't...I couldn't stand the thought of losing you!"

Warm arms found their way around her waist and she indulged herself in those few moments of tenderness. How she loved him! She leaned back against his chest, nuzzling against the softness of bare flesh for a few blessed seconds. He was so strong, so…warm and alive. She could scarcely believe after everything that they had gone through that he was still by her side.

"I know," came her whisper. "I'm not angry about you and Morrigan. I'm angry with the situation, but never with you," she finished hoping that the weakened words would be assurance enough, for she didn't know what else to say.

His arms tightened around her, and he turned her towards him with a familiar gentleness. How a man as strong as Alistair could touch her so softly, she would never know.

"After everything we've faced," he began with confidence born of the great love that shone in his eyes, "I know...I know we can face what's coming. The Archdemon is nothing after I lay with Morrigan," he joked weakly, and it caused Lucia to smile.

She shook her head resting her cheek against his chest for a few moments. He smelled poignantly familiar; like the soap he used to wash up with and the faint scent of late spring air. His hand ran through the confines of her hair for a few comforting moments and she stared out at the night once more, feeling Alistair close against her. But this time, even the closeness was not enough to erase or even lessen her irritation. She lifted her head up from his chest, resting her chin upon it so she could look into his face.

"Do you want to know all the things that are bothering me, Al?" she tested with some hesitation.

"Of course."

"Even if…if they might upset you?"

"I might not be the brightest, but I know that even if this was meant to be, we're going to have problems."

He spoke with quiet confidence; it was one of those things Lucia had always loved about him – he was not an arrogant man even though he had much reason to be. She took a huge breath.

"It's…it's everything. It's tomorrow, the fight with the Archdemon. It's knowing that I'm letting you go, and you…you might not come back. And it's…it's jealousy too. Not over Morrigan, but over not being at your side!" she said, suddenly allowing her true feelings to come to the surface. Her emerald eyes sparkled with unshed tears of frustration. "After all these months, shouldn't I get to be there too? Is it because I'm a woman, Alistair? Do you really think I need that much protecting? I'm a fighter! When have I given you reason to believe otherwise?"

Her gentle accusations were met with the falling of his face.

"I'm sorry," he replied contritely. "I know. You're right – I just – the thought of losing you-"

Lucia sat up, giving him a glare.

"Come off it, Alistair! You know very well I could lose you too," she pointed out, her voice tense. "Sometimes for being so smart you don't make a whole lot of sodding sense!"

"Fair enough," he replied, brown eyes widening. "But what's the point of risking both our lives? Why did I sleep with Morrigan if it wasn't to save our lives, Lucia? Unless you think I did it for pleasure."

A rare scowl marred his usually gentle face.

"I would understand leaving you behind and going to fight the Archdemon knowing I would die if I succeeded," he continued without letting her interrupt. "But this is different. This is you and me knowing what I did with Morrigan would ensure both of our lives were spared, right?"

Lucia stared at him coldly but did not speak so he continued with an obvious shudder.

"Right. So that means that we don't have to face this if we don't want to. And I WANT to because…because I'm the new king, and I want to prove that…that…I can do something for YOU. All this time, don't you see that you've been the driving force? If I didn't love you so much I'd…I'd be so angry that some woman can outsmart me and outfight me, and…"

He was red in the face, and she leaned up quickly to peck him on the mouth.

"All right, hush," she soothed. "I'm sorry – you wanted to know, remember?"

Still pained, Alistair nodded, relaxing only slightly with the touch of her hand on his shoulder, and then along his neck. He took a few breaths before speaking once more.

"After the Blight is over, I promise you I'm going to make the best husband in the whole of Thedas, I swear," he vowed, pressing a tender caress against her jaw. His lips were warm. "Please…try to understand. Let me do this for us. For you," he continued to whisper huskily, his fingers winding themselves in red locks of her hair.

She could then feel the weight of the ring that Alistair had offered so bashfully after the Landsmeet. In some ways, she would never forget his genuine if incredibly shy proposal. She knew, after everything they had been through, that his love was more real than any she had ever experienced or would have experienced. She forced herself to think of the coming marriage, and her life after it – it was what she had chosen, after all.

_I do love him!__ I can try to understand this. But it won't be sodding easy._

Her words were pained when she finally spoke, something nagging on her troubled heart.

"This coronation and the wedding coming up makes me think of Father," she said in a tiny voice.

Alistair's fingers were languidly playing within her hair.

"Which makes you think of your Mother?" he guessed.

She could sense his sympathy, but could only muster a sigh. Alistair kissed the top of her head.

"When I'm king, I'll find out who did it," he vowed. "Your mother wasn't supposed to die. She was murdered and I'll get to the bottom of it, I promise. We can even go to Antiva, if you want."

Lucia sat up, feeling a tightening of her heart, and with that came the same pain she had felt the afternoon Zevran had –

"You'd go to Antiva with me?" she asked, and then her face turned down into a grumpy frown. "Antiva makes me think of that damned Zevran," she muttered under her breath and with that came a string of choice words which should have made a proper man like Alistair blush if he hadn't been used to Lucia's tendency towards non-eloquent language.

"Why do you think he didn't just kill us outright?" she asked him then, though she expected no answer.

What she did expect, and what came was a flood of anger, betrayal and pain. She fought hard to keep breaking down about it, for she had done enough crying over a worthless elf who had clearly never given a damn about her.

"That's what he was sent to Ferelden for, right? Why didn't he just kill us? Why did he turn it into some sick game of cat and mouse? He's…he's…"

Alistair's reached up with both hands to hold her.

"I think you've probably exhausted all possible words, Lucia," he murmured with a hint of amusement.

But she was fired up now and her eyes flashed hatefully.

"Not even close!" she raged. "He's a stupid nug humping bastard elf…"

She sighed and buried her face into his chest once more, as if her anger had drained her completely. When she spoke it was not full of anger any longer.

"I just…I thought…I thought…"

Lucia fell silent, unable to say more and she only felt Alistair's gentle arms tighten around her protectively. She let out a shuddering sigh, blinking away hot tears of disappointment and anger.

_Why? Why did he join our party? __ Why did he so easily integrate himself with us, and Maker, help me, how was it that I trusted him so easily? That's the worst part of all of this! I TRUSTED him!_

"I just thought he was my friend," she finally uttered in a strangled whisper.

What frustrated her most was the fact that Zev could have been much, much more if…

Alistair's words cut into unwanted thoughts.

"I blame myself for some of it, Lucia," said Alistair then. She gazed into his troubled face.

"Alistair, stop – you know it wasn't…"

"If I had told you right away about Cailan being my brother, you wouldn't have turned to him," he muttered and Lucia could feel the tension creeping into his usually honeyed voice. "Don't try and say no. I know it. You turned to him because you were confused about me, and I was an ass. I know it," he finished simply. "The way I was behaving gave you no reason to trust me so you chose to trust someone else."

Lucia shifted in his arms, thinking for a moment on that time.

Meeting Zevran had been…

Well, it hadn't been like meeting Alistair, anyway. She had _felt _something upon her first glance at Zev and it hadn't been definable. It had just been. Some things she couldn't explain. Some things were crazy, unpredictable, just like Zevran himself. And those things…they made her heart hammer with excitement and her fingers and toes tingle. But how could she tell Alistair something like that without rousing his doubt in her love which surely she had given enough doubt to already?

"You might be an ass," she agreed, "But this wasn't your fault. None of us could have known what his true intentions were. An assassin is always an assassin, I suppose."

She trembled with hatred, but underneath it all…

She knew her trembling was not just from the betrayal but her own weakness when it came to Zevran Arainai. Who was he anyway? Who was he to turn on her in such a way when she had hoped, prayed, for an ally…someone she could trust! An Antivan Crow! The same kind that had murdered her mother so many years ago!

She was overwhelmed by everything that had transpired when Zevran admitted who he had been. He had left then, leaving behind unanswered questions and Lucia's broken heart. Questions about who had hired him? Had it been Loghain or someone else? Questions about what he might know about her mother, for as angry as Lucia was, she still often wondered if there was someone out there who would be able to clear up her doubts and worries. Her own father refused to talk of that time. And worst of all, Zevran had left behind questions about her love for Alistair, whom she had been certain had her heart until the roguish elf had nearly stolen it. And he had done hardly anything! That was infuriating – a man who wrangled feelings out of her without even trying.

It was preposterous! She was lying in the arms of a man who knew her inside and out. He knew the way her mind worked and sometimes knew what she was thinking before she spoke of it. He knew those parts of her no one else did and when it came to love making, well, he had discovered intimate places on her body which she herself had never known existed.

And yet, it was a man who hardly knew her – whom she had hardly even kissed – that stirred her blood.

_Bleeding Maker!_

She began to cry against him and Alistair whispered soft words to her.

Lucia clung to him, for she didn't know where else to turn, where else to take her confused and troubled emotions. Alistair loved her – at least in this she was certain. She felt the weight of his ring on her finger, and she took a deep comfort in knowing that she was making the right choice and once she was Queen, she could do as she pleased. The Blight would end. She would take the throne alongside her husband, the King of Ferelden, and then she could track down the Crow and destroy him the way he had nearly destroyed her. Revenge. Tit for tat. Her heart hammered wildly inside her chest, and she hoped Alistair could not feel it, for he had yet to inspire such passion in her. For this she felt awful, but it couldn't be helped.

She turned up her face, meeting his eyes in the dimly lit room. Beyond the window, it was dark and lonely, but here, in the safety and comfort of his embrace, she felt her tears slow, and her heart settle. Yes, this was the right choice she knew. No matter what she had felt for anyone else, especially the traitor Crow, she belonged with Alistair.

For Alistair deserved this. A happiness he had always wanted, a woman he would never betray, and a real, pure love.

_I DO love him,_ she thought once more, even though the words felt incomplete.

"What can I do?" he asked, his voice low and touched with helplessness.

Lucia leaned up, sliding herself along his body.

"Distract me," was her reply before she devilishly captured his mouth with her own, forcing herself to forget everything but the way he would make her feel.


	6. Chapter VI

_Thanks for all the reviews and messages guys! Hugs. And my betas are epic. FYI, there are some mentions of violence in this chapter – just in case. _

_L Cailan_

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><p><strong>CHAPTER SIX<strong>

Consider what you think justice requires, and decide accordingly. But never give your reasons; for your judgment will probably be right, but your reasons will certainly be wrong. ~Lord Mansfield

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><p><em>Antiva City (a day before the final battle)<em>

Renaldo Alfieri's dagger sailed across the courtyard, through the hot stale air. It made no other sounds but a clean whistle and a thwack as it hit its intended target with deadly precision. His smile was touched with satisfaction as he strode across the neatly manicured grasses that lined the training field of his estate to retrieve his weapon.

Beyond the intricate stone and iron gating around his property, Antiva City sparkled under the oppressive late afternoon sunshine. From the hilltop where the estate stood, Renaldo could only see hazy outlines of the sparkling stone and slate roofing of the city Chantry, and the intricate design of the palazzo steeple where Antiva's king resided. Beyond that he could just see the diamond glitter of the sea as it spread along the eternal horizon of azure skies and snow white clouds. Gulls were tiny black specs from Renaldo's vantage point, sailing lazily along the picture perfect sky.

He knew given the time of day that the roads leading down into the main city would be alive with carts and merchants as they made their way here and there, and the river that flowed through the grand, city center canal, would be crowded with boats, while the cobbled walks that housed many shops, buildings and stands would be teeming with people out and about during the late afternoon. He was much too far back on his estate property to properly see the paths towards the city, but he chose not to move.

Here on the hill it was peaceful – here he was away from the others – and he could enjoy the teeming life of the city while not compromising privacy that was a necessity. His job would not allow otherwise, for too many questions were asked, too many whispers over what he was doing and with whom. This way no one knew for sure what he was doing, and yet he could still benefit from the city of his birth.

For all the fame of being Antiva's most successful Crow Master, Renaldo did not travel frequently, and he did not desire to. He had been born in Antiva, had married a native, and would die here as well, buried right on his estate. And a man of power here, in this glorious city, got whatever he wanted.

He stepped around to the side of his property, and looked up at the massive trellises which were heavy with early summer passion fruit vines – a sight that he adored for its singular beauty.

As he stared, he found himself thinking of Rendon Howe and Ferelden. Much drabber was that country, full of mountains and hills, small villages spread far apart, and none of the beauty that he found within Antiva. There were no sapphire skies there, and no white, sparkling beaches. There were no brilliant emerald ferns, beautiful junipers or lovely passion fruit flowers. The air there was dank and redolent of garbage and wet dog.

How he hated Ferelden! How he hated the mere though of it, for never far from his mind was Bryce Cousland and what he had done with his wife. Not a day had gone by that Renaldo had not in some way dreamed of a bloody and satisfying revenge. His loathing for the result of the union between his now dead wife and that bastard Teyrn only grew – and he hated a woman he had never met, a woman who was innocent in all the dealings of her past and parentage, and yet he could not stop his hatred. How dare the Couslands disgrace him in the way they had and expect him to treat them with any kind of respect?

_How dare Eleanor Cousland return here after I told her bastard husband that I would slit his throat if ever he or she stepped foot on Antivan soils once more?_

And yet for whatever reason, the Teyrna had returned. Perhaps Bryce had not stressed enough the seriousness of Renaldo's threats. He still remembered how he had felt upon seeing her sitting in his visiting room that night.

The red hot rage inflamed his soul and made him tremble – even now – even years later. He turned from the splendid view of the city below him and took a shaking breath, his long fingers clenching around the dagger he was holding.

She had begged for forgiveness on the behalf of her adulterous husband. She had stated that all was forgiven and that Lucia – the name they had chosen for the red-haired babe – would be raised as if she were their very own and Renaldo would never have to worry.

_As if I had cared what happened to that child!_

She had asked him to be merciful for one day their daughter would want to know the truth and she should be given that right, because she was innocent, because she was a sweet and compassionate child, and she deserved their forgiveness and the whole truth.

Renaldo had spat in her face. He recalled nothing now except white hot outrage and the taste of blood in his mouth for he had bitten the edge of his tongue to keep calm. The rage that had flowed through him at first was a melee of heat and then a sudden freeze – as if his body had gone completely numb.

She had wanted mercy – and Renaldo had granted it. Instead of torturing with a knife, making her weep and beg for respite, he had used poison. Poison had sent her into an instant sleep and then death had come swiftly. And as Eleanor Cousland had lay dying, it was then that he had decided that his own wife would meet the same fate. It was in that moment that he had determined to rid himself of any and all memories and signs of what had happened between Bryce and Bettina.

Shuddering, the tall elven assassin turned once more, taking huge breaths to calm himself.

Damn Ferelden and all those bitter memories.

_Let Howe have his country and his lands and his arlings. Let him have a nation full of men with no sense of decency and loyalty – men with a weak will and a roving eye willing to shame their wives just for a passing fancy in bed. _

Now that he had taken care of Bryce Cousland more or less, there were only his wretched offspring to deal with. The happy go lucky Fergus who had married the unlucky Antivan woman. Whether Fergus lived or died, Renaldo did not care. He assumed sooner rather than later there would be a demand on his life for he was next in line for his father's post and Rendon Howe would not have that. The boy was as good as dead.

And of course, there was the bitch Lucia. He had received word the same morning he had visited Bryce that the Archdemon and the hordes would attack Denerim and that all available forces from all corners of Ferelden were coming together for what would be either a glorious victory or an upset of devastating proportions.

Renaldo turned towards the coming sunset as it greeted the earth with a kaleidoscope of colors. Here in Antiva, the Blight seemed only a passing threat. Life went on just as it had months before, and years before that – slowly and languidly as it always did. The Master wondered with a brief curiosity how many commoners in Antiva City even knew the seriousness of what was possible if the Archdemon was not slain in Ferelden – how it would affect the rest of the nations in Thedas.

The thought was a disconcerting one to Renaldo, but even that did not make him take back his words to Bryce earlier that week.

_I do want Lucia Cousland to die trying to slay the demon. If both Wardens fail, then the Blight rages on, but Rendon Howe gets what he wants and I rid myself of the Cousland bitch._

He considered then the destruction of his most treasured Antiva.

_Or perhaps Lucia falls on the battlefield and the demon is slain by the soon to be King Warden. Then Howe pays me coin to assassinate the King and we both get what we want._

The elven assassin studied his long fingers for a moment and he took comfort from that thought – it seemed to be the most comforting of all.

_And if Lucia does not fail…_

He smiled as he looked up towards his gorgeous estate – it was a smile of satisfaction.

_Strange how life can be so serendipitous and that Rendon Howe would give me the perfect excuse to eliminate her. _

He did not care much about the soon to be crowned king or Howe's land concerns and his power hungry desperation – all he cared about was that like himself, Howe wanted Lucia Cousland dead.

_And we shall both have that. And I will be paid which just sweetens the de__al._

Smiling to himself, Renaldo gazed towards the horizon of the setting sun and bright green juniper trees that lined the outskirts of his property – beyond those trees he could see the distant rocky cliffs that edged the other side of Antiva City. In spite of the breathtaking vista, his thoughts became troubled as he thought of his son – and the betrayal he felt.

_Did he betray me? Or is that girl__ as difficult to assassinate as Howe has suggested? _

Renaldo waited with baited breath. The feeling that his own son had betrayed him with his failing to assassinate the Cousland bitch had made him distrustful. What had happened during Zevran's time in Ferelden? What had made his son – a man who had no fear and felt no guilt – return to Antiva City alongside Taliesen without doing what he had been sent to do?

_What am I missing? _

Upon Zevran's return, Renaldo had locked him away as he did all those who failed at their missions though the others would have been met with a crueler fate than Zevran.

_He is still my son, and how can I destroy what I created?_

He had in the end been unable to slay Zevran. Renaldo hated it, but a strange sort of duty trapped him, a sense of family, as it were. Alfieri blood ran hot within Zevran's veins, even if his mother had been nothing but a common elven whore.

And she would not have allowed Zevran's death – at least not without a fight and Renaldo was not prepared to slay a woman who knew enough about his shady dealings that she could destroy him if it was her want.

He was not a man who easily shirked loyalties or turned a blind eye to threats.

After considering his options, the Master had decided that he would allow his son a second chance, and had sent him back out into the city that day to accompany the fledgling Felsi on his first lone mission. The assassination would prove once more that Zevran's duty was to Renaldo – and not to anyone else. Then he would deal with the repercussions of the Cousland failure and why it had happened.

But for now the elven Crow Master stood atop the hill, squinting in the hot sunlight. A man had been marked for death on this day – and he awaited news of the mission being completed.

* * *

><p>Two cloaked Crows moved through the crowds along the Grand Canal slowly, their eyes wandering and their ears sharp. They knew who was marked – and they were on a hunt to kill. Behind them boats moved along the thoroughfare loaded down with goods, some textiles but mostly large sacks of sunny yellow saffron from the farmers in the hills, ripe red tomatoes and a manner of many different brightly colored fruits.<p>

The sun was starting a slow descent in the sky making it difficult to see for it reflected off of the gleaming buildings on either side of the channel. Merchants yelled out their offers, peddling wares, and above their enticements the sizzle of the smithy could be heard along with the clanging of hammer against blade whilst forging was being done.

Zevran walked behind Antonio, for it was the newly initiated Crow's job – not his own.

Though his focus was on the task at hand – his mind continued to drift and he was puzzled as to why his father had not yet killed him. Thankfully, he was alive to kill another day, but something ate away at him – something which lay beyond the thankfulness and relief he felt. Renaldo was not a forgiving man – or was he?

_He never acted as if he cared. _

"Did he ever tell you, Antonio? About why I am still alive?"

The question was offered in a low voice so that no one overheard, but Zevran knew his comrade had heard for Antonio visibly stiffened with tension.

"No my friend, he did not."

The words seemed kind, but Zevran was not stupid enough to believe that Antonio held no grudge. There was too much bad blood between them, too much jealousy it seemed from the younger of the two. Antonio Felsi would have been more than happy to slice through Zevran without a thought – given the orders and the opportunity.

The blond Crow knew he had no true friends in Antiva besides Taliesen – even though he was quite in need of them.

_Tragedy, thy name is Zevran._

Antonio stopped and turned. There was a sheen of sweat along his pudgy face and he brushed a black curl out of his eyes as he glared at Zevran.

"I wonder myself though. I suppose some of us get second chances, even when most get the blade, yes?"

Zevran frowned.

"You hold a grudge against me then, my friend? I cannot help the Master's decisions," he pointed out in a friendly manner which made Antonio's face twitch with distaste.

"Not everyone is right all the time, Zevran, not even our Master."

The words and their implication were not lost on Zevran. He motioned with his hand.

"Duly noted. Shall we then?" he said, allowing Antonio to fall back into his walk.

They moved along the canal, towards the ocean in the distance, sparkling like the rarest of gems. Here the air was not as hot, as it was laced with the salty wind. The air was redolent of fried meats and the faint smell of leather and gunpowder from several of the shops along the cobbled path. It was Zevran's favorite place along the busy main street for there was nothing like the scent of fresh Antivan leather.

One street from the sea, Antonio stopped.

"There," he said with a slight nod that only Zevran acknowledged.

The two stood on the dusty walkway looking towards a tall, heavily bearded man selling carpets from within a tented booth. "That is him."

Zevran smiled.

"It is your kill," he whispered moving quickly to the edge of the channel and with a charming smile he requested passage across the waterway offering two silvers.

The men were transported to the other side, and then Zevran looked to Antonio.

"I have a sudden need to browse these wares, my friend," he said with a nod. "I shall see you in a moment, yes?"

"Indeed," stated the dark haired young man and he slipped to the side, and out of eyeshot.

Zevran approached the mark, and greeted him with a smile. He was a young man, with startling blue eyes and an engaging personality. His voice was like silken caramel and his laugh was so enticing that Zevran thought it a shame that he could not bed him first and have him killed later.

The elven assassin wondered for a moment why some people were chosen to die early and why others lived long lives. He wondered many things – how did this man become so hated? Who was it that wanted him dead? Was it simply a business arrangement or was it something more?

But he was an assassin and his job was not to ask questions (or to even wonder) but to do his job and do it quickly and succinctly. He walked towards the back of the makeshift shop, knowing that Antonio lay in wait. There was something about the kill which heightened all the senses and slowed time. He could hear the sound of people walking behind him, and the laughter of women passing, children's high pitched voices, and the bellows of the men. All sound came together in one low hum as time seemed to stop.

He looked down at one of the carpets casually, running his fingers along the pattern just as he heard the scurrying sound of his comrade. It was over in a blink – Felsi's dagger never missed. The sound of blade ripping through flesh sounded soft, smooth. It was not a messy kill, but the two men worked hurriedly to wrap the cooling body in one of the carpets to avoid any sign of something amiss.

Behind the rows and rows of shops and stands the shadowed alleyway stood empty, and the two assassins dragged the body towards the terra cotta sewer pipe leading to the endless sea. The dead man's hand slipped from within the carpet and Zevran noted for the first time that he had been clothed in expensive blue and white and on one of his thin fingers sat a splendid silver and gold ring.

The blond assassin stooped, wiping sweat from his brow, and then relieved the dead man of this piece, holding it up to his companion.

"Here," he said to Antonio, who was breathing heavily from the exertion of moving the rather large man. "You should have it."

"What?" he asked his black eyes widening.

"You should have it," repeated Zevran. "You will want to remember what today felt like. This is…what we are, Antonio," he explained, swallowing.

There was no guilt and certainly very little remorse. How could there be? He was nothing if he was not a Crow – and of this fact he was not ashamed.

"As with everything, even taking a life will become ordinary to you one day, my friend. With this, you can remember today."

The two men stared at one another, the body between them and the water nearest the channel lapping at the stone walls that encased its power. There was nothing but the sweltering heat and the metallic scent of blood. The only sound was the water and the distant tumult of humanity within the city. Perhaps Antonio understood more than he seemed to let on, for he reluctantly took the expensive jewelry while staring at it with interest. Slowly he slipped it on his pinkie, the only finger that the ring would fit.

"We are Crows. Just as those others within the city are templar, or merchants, priests and the nobility. This is our station in life and we would be fools to believe that we could do better. We were nothing and now look at us! We take lives. We have power."

Either cloaked man could have said it – and in the end it did not matter who spoke, for it was the same for both.

Zevran knew that lowly elf from the whorehouses of Antiva could never have asked for a better life than one with the Crows. He understood that Antonio Felsi's life had not been much easier – he had never known who his parents were. Both had been slaves, searched out and bought for a high price by Renaldo Alfieri. To most of the other Crows, Renaldo was like a father.

And in Zevran – Renaldo's blood flowed.

Certainly, yes, the man was unfeeling and a slave driver, but that was just as well for he was no worse than many of the masters Zevran had served as a child.

Renaldo was a cruel bloodthirsty tyrant who was quick with his sword and even quicker with his tongue.

_But in the end, my father still. _

It may have been different for Antonio, but Zevran had learned everything he knew from Renaldo. From him he had learned stealth and quick thinking. It was with Renaldo's blade that he had taken his first victim. It was the Master that had helped him find his confidence, and with that, his purpose in life. He had been born to kill – and damned be all who looked down on him for it.

It was a lonely life, a life making choices others would find unforgivable and serving a master that was often at times unyielding and cruel. Zevran knew, however, that life was not always a choice – that you had to accept your lot. And in the end he owed Renaldo endless loyalty – and he would always be thankful to him for life.

Antonio gazed down at the body as it sank into the channel and would be swept away into the sea as if he had never existed. There were too many people in the city and too much tumult for the kill to go noticed – and even if down the line the body was discovered, the water would have destroyed any links between it and the Crows. Oh – the others would whisper and gossip that the young merchant had met with foul play, but even if they had the slightest evidence no city dweller would dare point a finger at the assassin's guild. After all, underneath Antiva City's glittering façade, death was as common as a whore.

They waited a few moments, and then Zevran put an arm on the younger man's shoulder. Perhaps an act of understanding and sympathy for he had already undergone what Antonio was going through now.

"Come my friend," he offered. "It is time for a meal, yes? Some Antivan ale is in order."

"Yes," agreed Antonio, and for that one brief moment, no enmity lay between them – for they were two men who had accepted the same hard fate.


	7. Chapter VII

_One month and no update? Wow - between vacation and something else I've been writing, it's been nearly impossible. Here's the next installment! Thanks always for reading and all your support. And thanks to my betas!_

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER SEVEN<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Absolute silence leads to sadness - Jean Jacques Rousseau<em>

* * *

><p><em>Denerim<em>

Denerim burned. Beyond the early light of dawn Lucia could see the hazy orange glow of fire as it flickered, licked, and destroyed parts of the city she had grown to love.

But hope surged in her heart as she stood by the city gates, her emerald eyes searching through the morning fog and fire smoke, looking for Alistair. He was commanding the Royal Army now, at first uncertain and now strong and determined- a man so much like the one who had fallen at Ostagar. A man like Cailan, a man who would rule Ferelden with a sure hand.

A surge of love and confidence filled her as Lucia shifted from leg to another, feeling the sturdiness, the rightness of the armor she now wore. In spite of her inability to change the situation and the resentment that threatened to overwhelm her, she still knew she loved the man who was to leave her behind for this battle – the battle she felt she deserved.

Lucia hoped against hope that Alistair would see reason that she would be able to pass through these gates alongside Leliana, Sten, Oghren and Morrigan. She did not want to give up this fight - she despised being left behind, no matter the reasons Alistair had given her.

In front of her, Sten stood as a mighty sentinel, Leliana on his right and Morrigan a ways behind him on his left. Oghren had run off to join the dwarven warriors promising to return soon. He had given her the old familiar smirk and something in Lucia had wanted to weep.

_What if this is the last time I see him - that I see any of them? What if we both fail and the Archdemon survives?_

She was unaccustomed to panic and had always relied on her well laid plans, but even the best plan could not ensure victory, could it? Fidgeting once more, she heard running and yelling behind her and a group of elves wearing armor and carrying magnificent bows ran past her towards the alienage, swallowed up quickly by the smoky darkness and gone just as suddenly as they had come. In the fiery distance she could hear the inhuman shrieking of their foes - the many that had kept coming during her fight to stop the Blight. Her blood roared in reply - making everything inside of her burn.

Darkspawn. She twitched slightly and then suddenly the wind picked up, blowing around rogue strands of her hair.

_This is my fight too! Maker - let Alistair see that!_

Soldiers began to walk steadily down the main street towards the west side of the city, where, one could barely make out the top of Fort Drakon. The men were numerous and all wore the Royal Crest on their backs. Lucia's heart hammered wildly as she took a better grip on her dagger. Sten moved, nodding towards his companions.

"The Royal Army comes," he stated.

Lucia swallowed and then spun around in anticipation, watching the coming crowd for a glimmer of gold armor - something indicating that Alistair was nearby, but all she could see was the slowly lifting fog. The rain began to fall, at first misting and then with more and more insistent - soaking her through the sturdy chainmail she was wearing, the big fat drops hitting the dusty ground around her.

Through the rain, more and more men came, heading west, heading towards the final assault. Then, as if from nowhere, the sound of his voice startled her.

"One of us has to survive this. Lucia, you promised."

Lucia had lost sight of her goal - and had forgotten for a brief moment whom she was looking for, but when she turned around she saw him.

Alistair stood straight, watching her, the hardness in his eyes thwarting any sympathy and warmth that may have been there. Soft, the words were, but insistent all at the same time and even as Lucia tried to speak, nothing came but a strangled sound from the back of her throat. Alistair motioned to the others around her and began to speak to them.

"Go. It is time."

Lucia whirled around to face her companions. She was now soaked from head to foot, hair plastered around her pale face like a vivid red halo. The others, the ones she had learned to trust, to fight with, and to love - Maker, yes, she loved them - watched her with faces colored with affection and trepidation. Lucia found her eyes watering and she thanked the Maker that the rainstorm around them washed away any sign of what she perceived as weakness. When no one spoke, she found herself snapping back around to face Alistair, her face a mixture of hopelessness and anger.

"I have to go with you! You can't make me stay!"

The sound was a croak - the words raspy and thick.

Only at the sound of her voice did Alistair's hardened expression change - his brown eyes melting if only just slightly. Reaching out he cradled her face against his palm, and the gauntlet was hot cold and wet against her skin. Rain dripped down his chin and rolled along his temple, and Lucia had a maddening urge to hold him to her fiercely and not let him go.

_I could lose him. Even if I do what he wants, I could still lose him._

Lifting her chin high, her eyes flashed in unbridled contempt.

"You need me!"

"I need you alive."

"This is my fight too!"

"You promised, Lucia."

Then, nothing -just the rain falling hard and unceasing as more soldiers moved past now, their heavily armored boots splashing through the puddles that had now formed. She blinked the cold rain out of her eyes, choking on it for a moment. Behind her the sky lightened to a steely gray, the orange glow now gone, wiped away by the unrelenting rain. It pounded nearly as hard as her beleaguered heart.

"I did!" she choked out now, unable to stop the tears. "But I should be there with you! You need me! You need all the people you can get!"

This plea fell on deaf ears she knew - she had already known even before the utterance of the words. Alistair's face remained a mask of stubborn determination.

"I have people. This is something I have to do, Lucia. I want you safe, I told you."

Nothing, she knew, would change his mind now and somehow she found within herself the will to give up, and she relented, her body wilting. Her head dropped and she felt the heat of her tears burning through her.

"If you don't come back from this, I'll never forgive you."

The words weren't meant to be harsh; she had little energy left for such emotion. She was drained. Drained, disappointed and shell-shocked. The city around her swelled with battle and in the distance there were more screams of the darkspawn- their cry ringing through the gray, rainy skies.

Lucia found it impossible to look up because she was afraid he would see her resentment, and at that moment nothing was more important than his coming back to her safe and her feelings seemed shallow in light of their current situation. She gazed up at Alistair's face, grey and somber in the early morning light which had now imbued the world with ashen color.

She watched the rainwater run down his face as he spoke.

"And if I allow you to come with me and _you_ do not come out of this alive, all I have done with Morrigan will have been for naught. That was for us, Lucia. For our future. I have faith that I will not fail this battle and Ferelden, and if that's the case you and I will have a future. And if not, then why should _you_ be the one to die?"

When Lucia gazed up at him in despair she could no longer hold back the flood of tears.

"So that's your answer for all of this?" she hissed angrily. "You go off into battle, and, oh well, if you die?"

Eyes flashing he refused to budge.

"I chose this! I want to do one thing in my life – one thing that shows I'm willing to do anything for _you._ Don't deny me this one thing, Lucia. I love you."

She could see how torn he was in that moment, with battle swelling around them like a terrible symphony. She could see how he stepped forward to try and cradle her face in his hand, and then the way he stepped away in frustration and pain.

In the end, she let him go, watched him hurry off, the rain and gray fog swallowing him up completely and Lucia stood facing the direction he had gone, glad that her tears were erased by heavenly tears around her. The sword and dagger she now clutched felt useless and she felt more alone than she ever had before.

Leliana, Morrigan and Oghren had run after Alistair, and she could only recall now the echoes of their whispered goodbyes. Sten had rushed the city gates and Lucia for lack of more purpose, moved with him, raising her dagger as the darkspawn flooded the gates, screeching. She had sliced, cut and knocked down all that got into her way, fighting not only with purpose, but with anger – anger at being left behind, at the unfairness of it all. And even though she knew that Alistair was with her in spirit and that surely he would think of her – that she was missing something, someone. Someone who had fought with her for months before betraying her.

* * *

><p>The rain poured down from the heavens in long, wavering sheets, as the wind picked up and wailed mournfully. Lucia stood staring out of the window, trying to see past the huge droplets that ran down the pane and the low visibility of the landscape beyond.<p>

She was still dressed in her smallclothes – uncomfortable because they were damp and soiled from battle. But she had never changed for too much else raged in the forefront of her mind to make something that mundane important.

It was over.

On the outside she was a vision of calm, though the fiery flashing of her eyes gave away her ruse. Excitement raged within her hammering heart as she barely contained herself in waiting. A part of her was overjoyed, another relieved. The third (and the part she was trying to ignore) was still irritated and jealous.

_I won't be. I shouldn't be, it's not right. It's not fair to Alistair. _

She swallowed down the bitterness that threatened, her hands tightening on the black parapet of the window in the bedchamber.

The battle was won and the Blight was no more for the Archdemon's blood lay soaking into the muddied, early spring earth and was being washed away by the maelstrom. They had been victorious!

Lucia could see the lines of men moving through the city, tiny dots along the horizon. She had heard word only hours after the victory at Fort Drakon, and had taken immediately from the courtyard to come here, knowing they would tell him where she was – wanting to see him. She now stood where she had from the moment she had heard of the army's victory – of Alistair's victory, to be more exact.

Yes, she felt vindicated –for him, because she knew this had been their destiny. She had hoped from the beginning, even before she had joined the Wardens, that it would be her destiny. But it being Alistair's – well that was the same thing, wasn't it? She couldn't however deny the part of her soul that still yearned achingly to have been at Alistair's side, watching him strike the deadly blow against the Archdemon. It had been his blade, and his might that had sent the horde back to the Deep Roads for the time being – and no one was as deserving.

At least, that's what Lucia had been telling herself all this time. Once again she forced away the distasteful chain of thought, but this time it was drowned in her bitterness. She had been left behind – and she recalled the conversation (argument) they had shared the night before. It brought back the irritation and downright justified anger she felt. After all the work she had done, after the awful joining, all the darkspawn, battling, all the literal blood sweat and tears, Alistair had deemed her too precious for battle!

_Preposterous! How could he be like this?_

Lucia wanted to weep, and she hung her head, looking away from the rain stained window pane. She didn't want to hear them, but Alistair's words from the battlefield returned to her once more.

_She had felt guilt - guilt at the pain his in eyes, at the worry. It was only her stubbornness that was upsetting him, the irritation she couldn't hide at being left behind. She wondered what she would have done if he had died in battle. Rule Ferelden alone? When Anora was just waiting for such an opportunity? _

_And how? I was never of Theirin blood and therefore I would be usurped at first chance. How could he have thought it was a good idea? How could he just assume that leaving me behind to survive if he perished would ever be the right thing to do? _

The rain suddenly picked up, falling in huge, fat drops, momentarily disrupting her view of the approaching armies. Then it cleared and she could see them once more. Lucia stood completely still, deep in thought. At least Alistair had fulfilled his purpose. He was not only going to be the King of Ferelden, rightfully taking the throne his half brother had vacated so prematurely, but he was also the Grey Warden that had slain the Archdemon. It wasn't that Lucia begrudged him. She didn't - they had all had their purpose, hadn't they? Sten would go back to the Arishok with his answers about the Blight. Morrigan would be gone soon -if she wasn't already. Leliana would return to Orlais. Wynne was most likely back within the Tower already, and Oghren…well, she wondered what would happen to Oghren.

Each of them had played their part and now it was over. She had remained in the castle, wishing them farewell only from the gates, and after this, she knew she would not see them again.

Their union, their purpose was over.

And Zevran – no.

She wouldn't think of him, not now.

_Yes, we all had our part to play and we played it. I did my part. Alistair wanted me safe. I stayed behind for him - he was able to defeat the Blight knowing that I would be here when he returned._

The thought was a disappointing and sad one and she was no more convinced than the minute before. Her hands itched for her sword and dagger, and her soul for battle.

_A battle I __should __never have been denied_.

Lucia finally stepped away from the window, blinking furiously. She tried to distract herself.

The room was large and warmed by a huge fire in the far hearth. The bed was covered in opulent sheets and each window framed by long draperies. She had everything she had desired - from the tiniest things like slippers to elaborate dresses which she would be required and at the same time, hate to wear. No more would she be cold at night or uncomfortable on a lumpy bedroll. There would be no more days of trekking through miles of rain to get to the next destination. Their fight was over until the next time, and she was lucky.

She would be the king's wife. Whatever she desired was instantly granted. The seat on the throne would be hers.

_Alistair is mine. Why does this feel so wrong? It's all so sodden wrong!_

Why did she feel like somewhere along her journey, something had changed? Why was her heart weighed down by the feeling of being unfulfilled? Why did she need to compromise her own desires to do what she believed her family wanted her to do? Why did she miss those nights at camp when the newness of her love for Alistair had brightened her heart, and the danger of the darkspawn had quickened her heart with excitement and at the same time had stopped it in fear? How she longed for _those _nights once more! She longed to run, to battle, to be a warrior and not a woman. She longed for the nights she had spent in the taverns, drinking and cussing. She missed those intimate nights with Alistair in her tent just as much as she missed long conversations with her companions.

She longed for freedom. She longed for another man's-

_No_.

She refused another thought to pass through her mind.

_What will my purpose be now? The wife of the king? Will my life no longer be my own? _

Disappointed, she turned at the sound of the door opening. A man in armor walked in, removing his helmet as he went.

"My lady," he said, bowing deeply.

Lucia knew it was Ser Perth by the riot of honey brown curls that framed his angular features. He had been one of Eamon Guerrin's most devoted knights, and they had met him in Redcliffe when they had first traveled there. He had become Alistair's friend over their travels, and in the end one of his closest confidantes. Lucia knew that Alistair drew much of his wartime wisdom from Perth, as the man was much more seasoned in such matters.

"Ser," she said motioning him to right himself, which he did quite fluidly.

"I came to bring you news. The King elect had asked me several days ago to check into a matter of great...sensitivity," said Perth, choosing his words carefully. Lucia raised an eyebrow.

"Sensitivity?" she questioned with some interest - her life had become quite dormant she realized - since agreeing to be Alistair's bride. Any spark of something different rustled her restless heart.

"Yes, to track down a man...an assassin from Antiva. I suspect you know whom I speak of?" he questioned.

Lucia's heart stopped at the mention of Zevran and started beating once more, though now each beat was more like a gallop. She swallowed her emotional reaction.

"I...yes," she managed. "I know of him. I didn't know Al had-"

She stopped, biting her lip in worry. Why had Alistair involved himself in this of all things? Had he sensed her heartbreak? Sodden heartbreak over a dirty little elf that was no better than the dirt beneath her boots.

She wore a scowl on her face as she listened to Perth.

"It has been whispered that he plans on traveling south towards our fair city," said Perth noncommittally as Lucia's bright green eyes bore into his face with intensity.

"He comes to Denerim?" she asked, hoping her voice did not give away her feelings. No. She didn't STILL have feelings. She couldn't. Whatever had been, whatever chance as slim as it had been had died with his treachery.

"It seems that way, my lady," responded the advisor. "Alistair has asked me to keep watch on the castle if he should come here."

"He won't," was Lucia's reply as she turned towards the windows. It was raining harder now, the sound drowning their conversation.

"My Lady?"

"He won't," she repeated with more emphasis on her words. "He knows better. He is no friend of the Grey Wardens, and certainly no friend of the King's," she finished.

Perth nodded.

"As you say. Although the king mentioned...ah - well, I will leave that to you and Alistair then."

"Thank you."

"Enjoy the coronation festivities in the eve, my lady."

"You too, Ser Perth."

She heard him retreat, and then Lucia was left alone once more in her turbulent thoughts. She turned back towards the storm beyond her windows, her eyes sightless as they stared out at the gray.

_I know it shouldn't bother me, but it does! I know I should forget him, put him out of my mind and focus on the coronation and on the upcoming wedding. I shouldn't have dragged Al into this! Zevran shouldn't even be a memory any longer! Maker help me!_

She fought with that stupid part of herself, that insolent, stubborn part of her heart that had refused to let Zevran Arainai go. She stared unseeingly at the rain and the now swiftly approaching victorious army. Now she could hear their yells and cries of victory. She could hear the cheers from the citizens of Denerim, and the laughter of children.

And why not? The Blight was over - Denerim had been saved, Ferelden had not fallen as all had feared. And the coronation was upon them, a time of joyous celebration. Even more so now, Lucia knew. She also knew in the revelry to come and the parties, dancing and feasting, the city would be turned on its head, and it would be much too easy for a skilled and stealthy assassin to hide.

_He won't be found unless he wants to be, _her heart whispered. _Maker help us all._

_The door opened once more, this time with less ceremony and Lucia knew it was Alistair. She turned, seeing him standing there, hair a soaked mess, cheeks flushed, and his eyes bright with joy and the victory of battle. She rushed into his arms, holding him close, smelling the scent of rain drenched air and battle on him__ but clutching him all the same. His armor was half off, covered with dirt and snow. _

_"Hey now," he soothed kissing the top of her head. "You'll get dirty."_

_She let out a snort, running her hands down his neck and arms feeling the expensive fabric of her dress dampening._

_"And I haven't been there, Alistair? I'm a warrior and I know what it's like to fight, to get dirty. When have I shied away from blood and guts?" she asked shaking her head sadly. "Please don't coddle me," she finished with slight annoyance, and she lifted up her mouth to give him a proper kiss. _

_The king blushed._

_"Point taken," he said with a smirk. "I have been properly chastised, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I__ treated you like you're…I don't know," he sighed. _

_Lucia rolled her eyes affectionately, for she could never be angry with him for long. _

_"I know, you love me," she said with a smile, tipping her face up for another kiss which came more than willingly. _

_"I do," he sighed against her mouth and she found herself musing over how he tasted of rain and steel._

_"I could have been there with you," she reminded with a note of longing when the kiss was over. "I'm not fragile, I never have been. You just treat me like I am now that I'm to be your wife. No fair Al," she joked, although the truth was there, much deeper rooted than Lucia wanted to admit. _

_Gripping her hands in his, he pouted._

_"Don't do this again!" he bemoaned, raising one eyebrow. "I thought this discussion was beaten dead."_

_"Not as dead as I'd like you to be when I think of unfair it is!" she exclaimed matching his pout with her own. _

_Alistair, perhaps relieved that everything was over, didn't seem to bristle the way he had the night before and relented a little._

_"I know, I know, I just…you know, now that you're to be queen, we can't fight side by side. One of us has to…well, survive," he reminded. "So that Ferelden will have a ruler."_

_"Why must we always be so negative?" she inquired. "We never lost before, have we? Why would we start now?" she asked with confidence and a cheeky grin. _

_ Alistair couldn't help but smile back._

_"Point taken again. I love you," he whispered. "More now, more everyday. And the thought of losing you…."_

_"Shh…"_

_They embraced once more, Lucia swallowing the ever present dissatisfaction with her life. Was it enough? Feeling safe and being loved? Giving up the freedoms she had enjoyed and…simple things. Yes, the simple things. Like not having to wear yards and yards of unnecessary material because she was the future queen and was required to wear dresses. And having to watch her tongue even though some things were sodden, and some were bloody, and still others were damned, and she wasn't allowed to use such language without getting strange looks from everyone around her. _

_It wasn't bloody fair. She made a face._

_"Alistair?"_

_"Hmmm?"_

_"Must I wear dresses? They're uncomfortable and the sodding hoops keep catching on my stockings," she cursed glancing up at him accusingly as it were his fault. "I don't understand why I should have to wear them just because I'm a girl," she said rolling her eyes. "Can't I just be queen in a pair of trousers?" she asked. _

_He burst out laughing, his brown eyes shining with affection._

_"I think you would look beautiful no matter what. In fact, I rather fancy you without clothes," he said huskily. "But I'm not sure how the court would take to you walking around in just your trousers," he pointed out with a wiggle of his eyebrows. _

_Lucia sighed, and shifted the dress so she could hug him closer. _

_"It's not what I expected is all," she admitted snuggling up against him. "Nothing is the way I had thought it would be. I guess I'll get used to the dresses," she sighed, falling silent for now. _

_She felt him kiss the top of her head gently and she took a breath. She could get used to it. She guessed._

_"Alistair?" she questioned once more, this time more gently._

_"Yes?"_

_"Ser Perth came in here earlier and mentioned that you-"_

_Alistair interrupted by pulling away from her._

_"I didn't think he'd tell you!" he exclaimed with a half smile. "As it is, there's much to talk about love, but I really, really can't do this now," he said with a frown. "Believe it or not, even with this – even with my slaying the Archdemon, no one misses a beat. They're already planning the coronation supper," he muttered shaking his head. "They need my opinion. And my__ advisers are just outside the door…"  
><em>

_He motioned towards the large doors leading to the hallway, and his face fell. _

_"All right," Lucia consented with a sigh even though her heart yearned to know what business Alistair had with Zevran. "Tonight?"_

_The young king smiled, his face relaxing once more as he gathered her face in his hands and kissed her one last time._

_"Tonight, I swear. We'll be all alone again and you'll have me all to yourself."_

_"I should hope so, I am the future queen," she teased and then reluctantly watched him hurry from the room. Soon all that was left was the puddle of rain water where he had stood and Lucia turned back to the rain, listening to it as it violently sang a mournful song._


	8. Chapter VIII

_Thanks to everyone who is reading, and your kind words. And to Brelaina, my awesome beta! Enjoy!_

_LCailan_

* * *

><p>CHAPTER EIGHT<p>

_As memory may be a paradise from which we cannot be driven, it may also be a hell from which we cannot escape._

_John Lancaster Spalding_

* * *

><p>The hot afternoon of Antonio's first official assassination waned brilliantly into a hazy early evening as Zevran made his way along the dusty road leading up to the Alfieri estate. He was awed just as he always had been at its majestic stature rising up in front of perfectly blue skies. The estate was a huge one - much bigger than some of the palazzos in the city where the nobles and royalty resided.<p>

Though Antiva's line of kings had not been broken in centuries, the real owners of the city, the real decision makers, were those like Renaldo Alfieri. Men who were powerful merchants or powerful murderers. Just as everything else - Antiva hid its truth behind the glittering facade of only those things she would allow the eye to see. The truth was much more sinister. Merchants battling with merchants. Assassinations abounding - the poverty and the prostitution. All stark realities that were sometimes hard to hide.

The iron gates were open as Zevran reached the crest of the large hillside and turned to catch his breath for a moment. He looked down on Antiva City as the sun set on her, resplendent in the cloudless sky.

_I am his only son. This stands to be my own one day._

What other aspirations did he have, after all? He was a Crow – and he would be loyal for life. If there had been a choice, any other choice he would have-

Her face swam across his consciousness and with it the pain of rejection. She had rejected him. Of course, he would never be...what she wanted him to be. Because he was a murderer. Because the life he had accepted was far removed from that of what she would accept. Because his truths were darker and more complex. Because he took coin for a life.

And of course, because the Crows had killed her mother.

He made his way through the gates, working with great concentration to keep from thinking of Lucia, of seeing her face when she had realized who he was and what he had come to Ferelden to do. He could see tear-filled eyes now, and her mouth turned down in a frown of disbelief and shock. He could hear her words-

No.

He refused to think of it, as his thoughts were tumultuous and murky, and instead took in the courtyard with its splendid fountain spouting water, and the lush landscaping that his father up kept with meticulousness. The stone estate rose up on three sides of this courtyard, and the fountain stood at the center.

Beyond it, Zevran spied Renaldo. He bowed low, his robes sweeping the dusty pathway. Seeing Renaldo reminded Zevran once more of the growing concern he felt at why he was still alive, why he had been allowed to accompany Antonio on his assignment. The concern had been mild at first, but now it was nagging at him more and more. The two men exchanged a look when Zevran rose up from his bow.

"Take this," said Renaldo in a calm voice devoid of emotion of his true intentions.

It put Zevran on edge, but he took hold of the golden dagger which his Master held out willingly. He almost expected Renaldo to retreat, or to use the dagger to end all of Zevran's suspicions. But he did not, and the younger Crow took hold of the weapon, feeling its glorious weight within the circle of his fingers. It was a beautiful dagger with a jeweled handle and a sharp blade. Renaldo moved forward, back straight, head held high.

"Follow me," he added almost as an afterthought, for Zevran knew that this man did not make requests, instead, opting for demands which were always met.

He followed his Master around the east side of the estate. Here stood the training ground for the Crows. In the distance, targets lined the property, some studded with dagger holes, and some so worn with use they no longer resembled anything but a tangle of cloth and rough material hung on a stick.

"See that?" he questioned, raising his hand slightly to one of the targets which stood furthest away, near a grove of trees.

Zevran nodded.

"Yes, my Lord," he acknowledged, his senses heightened as he clutched the dagger.

"Do it," he stated with a slight nod.

Zevran did as was asked - sending the dagger sailing beautifully through the hot air towards the target and sinking the blade halfway through it with a hard thudding sound. Then there was silence. Then Zevran turned towards his father.

* * *

><p>For a moment Renaldo felt haunted, for Zevran's eyes were too much like his own.<p>

Over the years he had trained many young men and even some women in the art of assassination. He knew that with all things, harvest would come, and the grim reaper was not any different than any other harvester. The money was there, in this business, even if it came at high risk and sometimes death. Death was not something strange to Renaldo, after all. So long as it was not his own death, he paid it little heed. As with all business, there were casualties, and he had never been lax in eliminating those whom he did not feel were of utmost competence.

Zevran Arainai, however, had not been one of those men. He was a splendid specimen, quick and lithe, and willing. Oh, he had been willing! The art of the kill demanded skill and discretion, but it was also desire which drove the assassin. The young man possessed cunning and wiles, he was smart and quick thinking, and possessed finesse both with the blade and with poisons. Here stood a man who had assassinated three men in one day across the span of the whole of Antiva City - and none had been the wiser! Not only that, the man was beautiful - this was not truly a biased assessment, for he would be able to charm the very birds from their perches had he the desire. He was known to do whatever it took to get the job done - seducing both men and women so deftly that they hardly knew what had happened until it was too late.

He was amoral, and showed no true remorse or guilt -making him the perfect machine. He did what was asked without looking back and without truly contemplating the consequences. Renaldo admired this about Zevran, and had always held this man in higher esteem than many of his others. Perhaps it had been so because the boy was his own – for in him he saw his own eyes, the same mannerisms, often times even a smirk or a frown echoed with a strange familiarity to Renaldo. And he was proud – as proud as a man in his position was allowed, for a Master never played favorites.

"I feel as if I have failed, my Zevran," he murmured then.

"Failed?" questioned the blond Crow. "I do not understand."

"Have I failed?" repeated Renaldo. "You are still quick with the blade, yes? What happened when you went to Ferelden? Would I have sent Taliesen or even Antonio, I fear that the job would have been completed. But you! I never expected you to fail!"

Zevran nodded.

"Ah, so now we face this," he replied without emotion. "I have wondered why I am still alive, my Lord. I did fail you," he acknowledged.

There was a tense silence between them as the day began her farewell, the sun disappearing over the distant hillsides, bathing the sky in a beauteous purple color. The night creatures began their musical prelude singing the distance softly. Renaldo was not looking at Zevran, instead having taken his dagger back and examining it closely.

"The only question is why you failed."

"No. The question is why you allowed me to live."

The Master let out a throaty chuckle.

"You would turn this around on me, yes?"

"It is you who possesses the power to eliminate me."

"Indeed," replied Renaldo, and he finally looked up, his eyes boring into Zevran's. "You are my son, and I hold you in great esteem. I have believed you to be incredible at any task set before you, and never have you failed. You are of my blood and always you are my pride."

He eyed his son carefully.

* * *

><p>Zevran stared in shock, for those words were the last he had expected from a man who had never treated him with more caring, concern, and esteem than he had shown any other.<p>

"What happened in Ferelden?"

The question that lay between them now was one Zevran was afraid to answer, for the consequences would be dire. Perhaps Renaldo would grow angry and change his mind, taking his life right then and there. Or perhaps, he would go to Ferelden and finish the job Zevran had started. He refused to allow one of his own to take her life. Not Lucia - not a woman as splendid and full of life like she was. It seemed a shame to snuff out such vivacity - a woman so...strong, so understanding...so stubborn and willful. His feelings, the weakness which she had found inadvertently complicated matters.

"Is she that strong, Zevran?" Renaldo questioned, eyes sharply studying his face.

Zevran felt too scrutinized but he loathed showing it. Instead he lifted his head up.

"She is formidable, my Father."

"But not unkillable?"

"I do not know."

"So it is something else that cripples you, yes?"

The tension was palpable now - one could have sliced through it with a knife. But in those moments of silence something between the two men changed – something in the air, in the mood, something secret that fell over them like the coming nightfall.

Renaldo spoke softly, in tones of rich silk, his eyes knowing.

"You will go again. With Taliesen," he informed Zevran, watching him still.

The younger assassin looked up, startled.

_He is my Father…and more than that he has always been the only Master I have served. I owe him all so how can I deny him this request? Perhaps I did not choose this life, but I have accepted it and to cross him now – _

But then, the truth was that no one crossed Renaldo Alfieri. He managed words though they sounded suddenly squeaky.

"To Ferelden?"

"Imagine the glory, my son," Renaldo murmured taking a step forward. "In mere weeks she will be the Queen. And you! The one to assassinate her!"

Zevran hid the impossibility of this act. He could not take her life – not Lucia – ever. But if he denied his father then he would not live to know what happened to her.

"I...she is…"

Helplessly Zevran looked up in the weak hope that his Father would relent. Instead, he saw in his face tightening, darkening and his eyes flashed.

"You have your Mother's nature," he said, putting a heavy hand on Zevran's shoulder. "She allows emotions to weaken her. I understand what you seem to be telling me, my son. That you have fallen in love, yes?"

Zevran could only stare, too shaken to reply. Renaldo's face remained infuriatingly unreadable.

"Do not let whatever it is you feel blind you to a woman's faults. How is this one any different than the line of lovers that has come before her?"

His face twisted now, a mask of hatred.

"I gave my life and vows of loyalty to a woman who threw them in the sewer with the most disgusting rubbish for a man not even half of what I am! I understand feelings for I let them control me and I was unable to see her for what she was. Alas, I loved her from the beginning and until the moment she died. It was my undoing. Never let a woman control you, son."

He whirled on Zevran.

"Guilt is a wasted emotion for it benefits no one – never feel guilt for your actions. I cannot accept mediocrity in my assassins any more than I can accept your softened heart towards a woman. Let alone one with the Cousland name!"

Though he tried to hide it, Zevran was keenly aware of the cold bitterness that had crept into Renaldo's voice and darkened it. He swallowed.

"What do _you_ know of the Couslands?"

He had not meant the question harshly, but because of the corner he had been pushed into it came out thus. He saw his father's eyes flicker and for a moment he felt he had crossed an imaginary line that no one had ever dared to. He waited for an inevitable outburst which never came.

Instead, Renaldo remained eerily calm.

"I know enough. Do not dare question me and my reasoning. Bryce Cousland is a disgusting waste of life that plays the part of humble nobility during the day while he fills his nights by bedding women who do not belong to him!"

Zevran worked to keep his face nonchalant, but the words and the vehemence behind them startled the elf for never in any of her tales had Lucia spoken poorly of her father. Not that he had expected her to, per say, but even a child who idolized a parent would have to admit when they did something wrong, yes?

"And when his wife came to me, begging me to forgive him for his heinous acts as if I _should _have…I…."

He stopped, considering his son for a moment.

"Eleanor Cousland saw no wrong in her husband and like a stupid cow she begged on his behalf. Begged for leniency and understanding and begged for mercy. There is no mercy like poison. I should have used a knife and still I am sorry I did not – for she deserved it. She died in her sleep."

Zevran stared at his father unable to reply.

"You were the one who-"

"Ah? So the bitch told you of her poor mother?" he replied snidely.

Zevran remained silent, knowing that more talk would lead to only greater friction.

Not that he had the words to express what he was feeling in that moment. His own father? Why did he feel betrayed when he had never known Eleanor Cousland and hardly knew her daughter?

_I love her. Maker help me, but I love her._

Zevran knew his hesitancy was angering Renaldo, but it could not be helped.

"Love is disgusting, unnecessary and interfering, son. You must wield the control at all times."

Zevran heard but it was already too late – for Lucia owned him whether he had wanted it or not.

"What did Eleanor Cousland do to you?"

The question slipped from him unbidden and the only response he received was a cruel laughter.

"When have you ever questioned me before? Ah, love makes one bold! Indeed that is not important. The important thing is that you will go again, Zevran."

The man turned and the look he gave his son was so intense Zevran thought he might break into cold sweat. Then, he reached out with a weathered palm.

"My son," he said, his tone tender. "How proud you make me. Never forget where you came from."

The words were gentle, they mocked Renaldo's true nature and yet…something about them made Zevran hesitate. Perhaps his father was right. After all, Lucia had done nothing but cause him pain and here was a man who had raised him and taught him everything he knew. To Renaldo he owed everything, to his father-

"I will go."

The words were strangled but they were rewarded with a smile. The older man patted Zevran's cheek with gusto.

"You are a fine man. Just remember. No guilt, no conscience. You will master this as well as you have mastered everything else, you will see."

Zevran was gladder now for his training than he had ever been in his life – for he was able to wear a cloak of indifference the entire time his Father was speaking.

_Will I? Will this mastery regain me my heart, Father?_

The night had fallen, her dark velvet falling around them.

The sound of a carriage drawing up to the front of Alfieri's estate could be heard against the cobbled walk.

"Ah, Taliesen arrives," said Renaldo in friendly tones, as if there had not just been a life changing moment for Zevran. As if there had not just been a decision made to take the life of the woman he loved. The young assassin kept his head down, strands of blond hair falling into his face. His heart hammered wildly within his chest and he feared his father would discover his complete devastation. The sounds around him – night creatures singing, Renaldo greeting Taliesen jovially, the reply, the sound of hoof beats against the cement, talking, everything…melted into one rushing sound, ringing in Zevran's ears.

He could not breathe.

He took hold of his blade which lay in his pocket, warm and solid against his muscled thigh and then he stopped thinking and began to act. For an assassin never thought twice, he never felt, he simply _acted._ His body tensed, and before he knew he was really doing it, he sunk the blade into his Master's back, smoothly and without a tremble. Zevran was breathing heavily, staring down at the fallen man who had uttered no sound but a strangled gurgle. Blood seeped along the stones, and then into the earth nearby.

* * *

><p>"Zevran," gasped Taliesen, his dark eyes widening with shock. The blond Crow stared down at the ground, dagger limp in his fingers, still covered with Renaldo's blood. Taliesen pulled him away from the fallen Master, staring at him with increasing horror now.<p>

"Zevran!" he repeated, this time more loudly, yanking his old friend forward. "What…what is this?"

Nothing. Now the night was fully upon them, lending her blessed shadows. It would buy them a little more time, just a few extra moments, for if someone came out to the courtyard now, it would be over for Zevran.

"Come," he muttered roughly, pulling him forward, shoving him up and into the carriage. "We must go."

There was no explaining it, no hesitating now. The horses whinnied in a weak way just as the reins were pulled tight, and the night air flooded the small carriage as it floated quickly away, down the hill, away from the estate from the fallen, bleeding man. Soon they were wrapped in the darkness, the ocean far in the distance, and Antiva City glittering below them, coming closer, even closer now. In the dimness of the space between them, Taliesen could see the other man swaying with the motion of the quickly moving carriage, his face white and sallow whenever he could glimpse him in the moonlight. But there was no emotion there, nothing. No hatred, and no sadness, no remorse – it was quite frightening.

The carriage driver stopped near the canal, and Taliesen offered payment, rushing Zevran down the three small steps onto the thoroughfare. Though not quite late, that evening there were less people about. It was much easier to maneuver through the crowds, and less of a chance of getting caught, of someone else realizing what had happened.

The dark haired assassin wondered how much time they really DID have. He wondered what had happened, what had possessed the always level headed Zevran Arainai to strike out at the most powerful man in Antiva City.

Maker.

The ocean was upon them now, and there were boats docked along the large seaside bay, some fishing boats and other merchant vessels, and some boats exclusively for travel. He offered a heavily bearded man his last sovereign to sail up the northern coastline although he did not know their destination, and within the hour two cloaked men stood on the deck, the ocean breezes ruffling their hair.

Over the sound of the waves splashing against the boat, Taliesen finally broke their long silence.

"Why?" he called out, standing ramrod straight, eyes out towards the blackness ahead of them. Zevran did not reply, the wind blowing his hair around his face. The air smelled heavy, salty. For awhile, there was nothing but the crashing of water around them. When he spoke, it was barely audible above the sound of the water.

"He gave me no choice."

The words were strange, cold. Taliesen considered them for a moment, but did not ask questions, knowing that Zevran would not elaborate.

"Where to, my friend?"

This time, the blond Crow looked at him.

"You must not be associated with this," he said, and his golden brown eyes flashed for a moment with sadness and regret. "You should not suffer as I will."

"Zevran, I…it is a lonely life that you and I lead," he began and although he could feel Zevran's eyes on him, he remained forward. "It is rare to know that you have a friend. You are my friend," he finished.

It seemed enough in that moment, two men – two friends – on the run from the life that one had so easily forsaken. Taliesen still did not know why, but he knew that with time, Zevran would tell him, if they managed to remain alive.

"We must part," stated Zevran after a long pause filled with the song of the sea. "But when I feel it is safe, I will send for you."

"It will never be safe," replied Taliesen in a tone that was wracked with uncertainty.

"Perhaps you are right at that. But we must hope," he said and turned to his friend. "It is not safe for us to be together. I do not know if Renaldo still lives. But surely if he does, they will come after me and you. You must go."


	9. Chapter IX

**CHAPTER NINE**

* * *

><p><em>Adversity is like a strong wind. It tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are.<em>_  
>~<em>_Arthur Golden_

* * *

><p>Zevran motioned towards the bartender. One hand reached for the coin in his pocket, the other tucked the free strands of his white blond hair behind a pointed ear. He glanced around to make sure he was still alone. Amidst the roomful of patrons, he knew he was. No one was watching him – well, at least not the way he expected under the circumstances. Not that he'd put down his guard – how could he when he had done the unthinkable?<p>

_How many Crow Masters__ have created a monster? How many men go around stabbing their own flesh and blood? _

"Another one, ser," he said with a half smile, glancing into the empty stein.

He slipped two silvers across the table, as the barmaid refilled his drink, and then he returned to the table by the door, kicking up his booted feet and sipping slowly. He played the game well, forcing casualness he did not feel, and acting nonchalant when in reality he was more frightened than he could ever remember being.

He did not know if his father had survived.

Even now, a week after the deed, all Zevran could recall was the heat of the falling evening and the heaviness of his dagger as he had sunk it into his Master's back.

He knew that if Renaldo had survived the stabbing…

_I am living on borrowed time. He will come after me__. doubled in anger and make sure that I finish what I started here. Maker help me. _

It seemed strange to Zevran somehow – he had always believed that to join the Crows was to sign away one's life. That wasn't really true, and he had realized that only after stabbing his Master in the back. Literally.

It was only now that his life was no longer _truly _his. The life of a Crow was not a bad one, and for one who had been from the Antivan slums, it was a good life, indeed. He had never wanted for food, wine, woman or man. Even though it came with a high price for murder was a crime punishable by death - if you were good you would not get caught.

Even though it had seemed like his life was not his, in some ways it _had_ been. Now…

_He spared my life once, because I am his son and he is proud of me. But will he spare me again now that I have done this thing? Surely not. If Father survived, he will seek vengeance. If he is dead, someone else will seek his vengeance for him. And if there is no revenge to be had, I will still have to murder Lucia to prove to my own Father that I am loyal to him. Literally or figuratively, I am a dead man. _

He looked down into the full mug of ale deeply troubled, and decided that he would sit here even if Taliesen did not show himself. After all, it was either here or the trashy room he had rented in the eastern part of Denerim. There was nothing waiting for him there but a piss stained mattress and a strange, toothless man who demanded a silver for each night Zevran had spent there.

A blasted silver to sleep in a shithole! Maker.

He had not missed Ferelden at all. The weather was cool and wet, even though it was late spring. The sunshine was weak compared to the brilliance of his Antiva. And the last few days had been marked by torrential rains that he had never seen in his home land.

Truly, it was a miserable country. And here, he was nobody. No, he had not missed it, and yet, he had returned. His heart twisted. The only good thing that had come from this forsaken country had been Lucia Cousland. He took a sip of his drink.

That…and the ale.

Full bodied, fruitier than it had the right to be, with just enough bitterness.

He chuckled to himself to spite his misery.

Perhaps traveling with the drunken dwarf had painted his tastes. At any rate, he was glad for the ale. It made him feel warm, mellow. Though Zevran preferred the rich wines and the singular brandies of Antiva, sometimes one needed to get down and dirty and throw back a few mugs of brew. There was no doubt of that.

_Especially now. Maker, I would like to drown myself in ale._

Getting besotted would do him little good, but it would help him forget why he was back in Denerim, why he had stabbed his father, and why he couldn't quite get a grip on his life anymore.

As hard as he tried not to, Zevran was faced with the same dilemma. Oh would it have been any other woman – _any_- and he would have done it simply because he was devoted to his master and his work, and to the guild. But – Lucia.

_Can I make such a choice? Do I even HAVE a choice? _

He wondered what it was about the Cousland family that had pushed Renaldo to such action – murder without reason seemed, well…it seemed-

_Yes, murder is cruel but we have our reasons for it. Many of them in fact. Some people require assassinating but I cannot think of any justification at taking the life of a noble woman whom you did not truly even know!_

There was of course the proverbial two sides to every story but Zevran was not sure he wanted to hear his father's side – and he certainly would never know Lucia's mother.

_But even if there were a reason for Eleanor Cousland's murder it still does not help me!_

Behind him the door opened just as he took another sip, and the elf turned around, dropping his feet on the dusty floor. Taliesen walked in covered in a heavy black cloak, but his shock of black hair and beady eyes were unmistakable. The man standing looked around the crowded tavern and spotted Zevran immediately.

"There you are," he said, sinking into the chair opposite the elf's.

Taliesen's eyes reflected shock and what Zevran hoped was relief. A secret part of him hoped that in this man he had true friend, someone who would miss him if he happened to be slain. After all, every man needed a friend like that. He would be ever grateful for the deed Taliesen had done the night Renaldo had fallen – without his help, surely Zevran knew he would be already dead.

"Here I am," mocked the elf smoothly, taking another swig of ale. Ah…perfection.

"I am glad to see you are alive," said the dark haired man, sighing as he removed the cloak. "I was sure that after what happened at Alfieri's estate…oh mi dios!" he hissed leaning towards Zevran. "You should be dead!"

"I should be, but alas, I am not," replied the blond man. "I am surprised that you were not the one sent to kill me, my friend," he added, suddenly wondering if he had been right to trust Taliesen in spite of their long time friendship.

The other man ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

"I did as you asked and I took my leave of you, but I could not return to Antiva– I do not even know if Renaldo lives," he admitted, his eyes down-turned.

The silence between them was heavy and tense. The dark haired one finally spoke, voicing his questions, the same questions he had asked on the boat the night they had fled Antiva City.

"Will you tell me now what happened between you and Renaldo?"

Without looking up, Zevran spoke.

"It is much more complicated than you know, my friend. I could not take the time to explain. It started shortly after I was sent here the first time."

Yes, that day – the day the two sitting together had slain their companion, watching her fall as she choked on her own blood. Zevran could not remember a moment in his life when he had felt more sickened, more deadened, than the day Rinna had been killed.

"Que paso Zevran?" His voice was more muted now. "How did the assassination of the Grey Wardens go so awry? I had heard you left Antiva after Rinna…I believed that you would never return, that you were fleeing for what had happened."

He couldn't speak for a few moments and Zevran refused to look up, afraid his own rattled emotions would be readable on his face.

"I had hoped to die," he agreed, nodding towards Taliesen. "It was supposed to be I or the Grey Wardens," he finished, his tone souring.

"I hear through the vine that your mark is to be the new queen within the month," Taliesen said, and the two assassins exchanged a look which spoke much without words.

"Indeed," Zevran stated matter of factly as he took another blessed sip of ale, "I had two marks, and both are still living, and the other will be Ferelden's new king."

There was no making sense of the tone of voice with which Zevran spoke, or why he was making light of a grave situation.

"When I arrived at your camp," began Taliesen in a lower voice now, "I was certain you had sent for me because the deed was done. But she was not dead! How could you have turned your back on that job, gone against Renaldo? And what happened last week at the estate – Zev, have you gone insane?"

Zevran let out a sad laugh, his fingers clasped around the large mug now half full of that night's salvation. Love was quite the insanity, in fact.

"To be perfectly honest, I do not think I could have killed her. There were…unexpected complications. And she fights as I do."

"You've faced other rogue fighters."

"Yes, but along with her she had a fallen templar, a sultry apostate, a lovely bard and that sodden Qunari soldier. None would have sat back and allowed me to take her life. Perhaps had I ambushed them at the beginning of my travels, I would have had a chance. But I did not do that."

Taliesen laughed.

"The Zevran I know would never shirk at the challenge," he replied, growing naturally suspicious. "What was the real problem? Why were you so eager to get away? Why did we not kill her when we had the chance? You know Howe is already wondering what happened, which makes me wonder why Renaldo spared your life."

Zevran sighed then, tapping his booted foot against the ground.

"That part is unimportant," he replied, for his true parentage was something he would not disclose to anyone – even a friend. "What is more troubling is Renaldo has sent me here once more to finish what I had started and I do not know if I can, even though…a part of me – wants to."

There was a silence and Taliesen looked at the other man thoughtfully.

"And why is it you cannot?"

Zevran looked up at his friend.

"It is her – Lucia Cousland. La amo."

"You love her?"

"I never believed there would be a situation that would make me hesitate in doing what Renaldo asks of me, but – she has changed everything about my life. From the moment I laid eyes on her the option to kill her went out the window. He backed me into a corner and I…I panicked," he admitted shaking his head.

Taliesen stared, his dark eyes widening.

"For that woman you would risk your own life? Compromise your very being and everything you have known?" He asked incredulously. "I have seen you do stupid things in the name of so called amor in the past, but my friend, you have gone too far! You cannot return to Antiva until the job is done, yes? And if Renaldo survived the stabbing surely you have angered him and whether or not you finish the mission successfully may no longer matter. The Crows will find you sooner or later, if Alistair and Lucia do not kill you first."

The elf raised an eyebrow which caused Taliesen to snort in contempt.

"If you met your would be assassin on the streets would you not want him dead?"

"You have a point."

Taliesen wore a smirk touched by concern.

"No matter how you look at it, you are a wanted man, and I'm no longer sure I can rescue you a third time."

Zevran's honey brown eyes sparkled.

"You certainly saved this damsel in distress at least once," he agreed, heartily avoiding the answers to his questions. "I would not ask you do that again."

Taliesen stared, shaking his head.

"And you return here then? Of all places?" he questioned, raising one heavy dark eyebrow. "For you still hold a candle for the soon to be queen?"

The answers may have been written on the elf's face, but his companion hated to assume anything and Zevran remained silent in a maddening way. Sighing, the other assassin gave up.

"So you will not tell me," he guessed with resignation. "I warn you, I bought you time by alluding that someone else attempted Renaldo harm while you hurried to Ferelden to finish your mission. They may not look for you immediately but once Renaldo awakens and he speaks to them the truth, I do not know-"

He took a breath and leaned in towards Zevran, his eyes serious. The other assassin looked no way near as troubled, though perhaps it was simply the effects of the ale.

"Here is how it is. Renaldo will come after you once he is well and Ferelden will be the first place he comes. He may come to find you, but it will be more likely that he will come to ensure that you have done your job. If you care for the girl as you say you do, neither of you are safe here."

Zevran's eyes flickered as he registered Taliesen's words, but his face remained stoic, his lips pressed together in a hard line as he stared into his empty mug. He could not – would not – express his fear at those words, for to admit fear was to embrace it in welcome.

"And?" he questioned tersely.

"And?" mocked Taliesen, his words tinged with surprise. "You want more?"

"No hay dos sin tres. Bad news does not travel alone."

Taliesen sighed.

"And the King believes you are to arrive in Denerim tomorrow night. He has had you followed all this time, perhaps since your arrival," he guessed.

The look on Zevran's face was grim when he looked up.

"You may be right," he murmured under his breath. "I have little time to waste here."

"Indeed, as far as I am concerned, you have NO time to waste here. You should leave. Tonight."

Zevran's face was unreadable. The rain fell outside in sheets – alas – he would never be used to such weather. He stood, shrugging on his cloak and pulling the hood over his crown of white gold hair. For awhile at least the glow of the fire and the ale would keep him warm when he left the tavern.

"Thank you my friend," he said then, nodding just as Taliesen also got to his feet. The two regarded each other in comfortable silence. "I owe you twice now."

Taliesen returned the nod, his own much lower.

"En las malas se conocen a los amigos. Be well, Zevran. I had hoped to find you alive. And stay away from the Pearl. It will be the first place Alistair will ambush in looking for you."

Zevran threw his head back, laughing richly.

"How….predictable of him then!" he stated with another flash of a confident smile. "I appreciate the warnings, my friend. I will heed them well."

He took two steps away from the small wooden table and turned to Taliesen once more, wondering if he would ever see his old friend again. At least alive that was.

"Allow me to embrace you properly," Zevran said reaching to hug his friend a moment.

He stepped back then. "Go with the Maker," Zevran murmured his eyes gazing with fellowship at his comrade for a split second, and then he slipped through the door.

He hurried out of the tavern into the rainy, cold night. The path ahead of him was studded with muddy puddles of water. Gripping his dagger underneath the cloak, Zevran hurried forward and out of sight, swallowed up by wallowing shadows. As he hurried along the alleyways and the least traveled streets, he was sure of one thing only. He would not leave Denerim, could not heed Taliesen's warnings. Not until he had seen her once more. His life meant much to him but he wasn't stupid and he knew that somewhere along the line his love for her had become more important than anything else. And he did not know how to rectify that.

_Nor do I want to._

* * *

><p><em>AN: I have a coworker who helps me with the Spanish phrases. Taliesen's comment translates to 'a friend in need, is a friend indeed'. LCailan  
><em>


	10. Chapter X

**_As always, a huge thank you to Brelaina for her beta work. :) Next chapter brings the warden and Zev together - finally! :D_  
><strong>

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><p><strong>CHAPTER TEN<strong>

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><p><em>"...but her eyes had had too much in them and his heart way too little for things to keep going."<em>

_J.R. Ward _

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><p>When the rest of the inhabitants of Eamon's estate were long in their dreaming, a faint light issued from the future king's bedchamber. It was from the fire that was burning in the grate nearest to Alistair's bed. Lucia sat on a small settee by the window, the book she had been perusing now in her lap, finger marking her place. Her mouth hung open.<p>

It had been a long day, one filled with waiting for Lucia and meetings for Alistair, as the eve of his coronation drew near. It seemed strange to them both that something like ending the Blight had not put pause into anyone's heart, and that life was moving on just as it would have at any other time. Yes, the Blight was over, but now…now it was time to crown a new king! It seemed that the city was all a flutter with the news and with preparations for a celebration that none had seen in a very long time.

Alistair looked rather well rested for being the center of attention, as he was being pulled in every which direction, between the tailor and the cook, to the advisers and his royal army generals. Lucia had not seen or spoken to him since his return from Fort Drakon, that was, until that evening. She had finally brought up the questions that had arisen from the conversation with Perth. Lucia's heart hammered at Alistair's words. He was deep in thought she knew – his hair was messy from his hands and his cheeks flushed in a way that was only because of his inner turmoil and perhaps some excitement. She watched him as he began his nervous pacing - a habit she had noticed in him a long time ago. Alistair wore all emotion on his rather awkward sleeve. It was endearing yet at the same time it was sometimes all together irritating. Like now.

Lucia finally stood, putting her reading aside and moved towards her husband to be, her long nightgown fluttering around her toes. Her hands were tucked behind her back, wrung together so tightly her knuckles were turning white.

"Al, I'm not trying to be ungrateful," she said then, her own words sounding slow and garbled in her ears. "But I…I don't think…you don't need to be involved in this. I mentioned Zevran because I can't seem to move past what happened with my mother and the fact of what he did to us," she said, careful to include everyone in her statement because she wasn't ready to admit that it bothered her more than it had bothered anyone. She wondered if Alistair would have even given it a second thought had it not…

He watched her, running his fingers through his hair in agitation.

"Look, Lucia, when we get married, that's what I want you to be thinking about!" he exclaimed his eyes bright. "I know he hurt you and don't you think that it's time he faced the consequences? He's not dealing with just Alistair anymore," he added with a haughty lift of his chin. "I'm the king now, or soon to be, and I have powers beyond his own and he deserves…"

Lucia thought once more how undeserving she was of Alistair, especially since her love for him was not even half as pure as the love he had for her. She reached up to stroke his face in hopes of calming him.

"Please calm down," she breathed, her heart catching at his expression. "I didn't bring it up because I thought you had done something wrong. I just…was surprised you had gotten involved at all. How are you so sure he'll even be in the city? He's a Crow," she grumbled, her lips pursing together in a frown of distaste.

The soon to be king stopped pacing, and now the room was in complete silence as his footfalls had been rather loud on the wooden floor.

"Lucia, you _know _he'll be in Denerim!" he stated firmly, his eyes widening. "It's my coronation! Everyone will be feasting, celebrating, this whole city will be up in arms!" he exclaimed, opening his arms wide. "I kept thinking about what he had done, and how he had treated you...and me, and everyone really, and then I just...I just couldn't believe he'd just..._disappear _the way he did! So I talked to Dorvell, and now I'm _sure _of it. He means to come here – now – during all this confusion and revelry. It would be easier to hide."

That was when his expression faded, replaced by uncertainty and...perhaps sadness.

"He probably means to see you," he finished, his words trailing away into silence as his gaze dropped.

Lucia took a step forward, her hand covering his within seconds, hoping to reassure herself as well as him.

"Alistair..."

He hesitated and then allowed her to wrap her arms around him.

"I'm just saying," he muttered blushing just a touch. "I know...what you had is over, but...well I can't help wondering...what if-"

Yes. What if? Lucia hugged him closely, partly to assure him that she was there, and partly to avoid his gaze so that he not find out that even thinking of what had happened between herself and Zevran turned her all around. She banished those thoughts quickly and let go of him just as he began to speak again. She could see Alistair was trying to power through his conflicting emotions.

_I need to do that too. He believes I've already dealt with my feelings. How can I do this to him? _

"You are to be my Queen," he continued with a touch of devotion in his voice now. "Everyone in this city, Maker, everyone in Ferelden will know you now. If he's here as I suspect, he will certainly want to know how you've fared, don't you think?"

Lucia, wide eyed, could only stare. Nothing intelligent came to her lips.

"I..."

"Perhaps if we...well, if you just happen to be...at the same place at the same time, well that cannot be helped can it?" he said, and she saw for a second the flash of his eyes and the impish grin that had made her fall in love with him in the first place.

"You're setting him up!" she gasped.

Alistair smirked.

"Only a little?" he wheedled. "I know you don't want to see him, and Maker knows I don't. But...you know him. He'll only let us see...what he wants us to see."

Lucia swallowed, unable to argue even weakly with Alistair's logic. She knew he was right - Zevran could be a stealthy as a black cat on a moonless night. But, as she looked up into his eyes, she couldn't deny the fluttering of excitement in the pit of her stomach.

She wanted this, even if it seemed stupid and dangerous. Seeing Zevran that was. Stupid.

_But I want to._

Yes, she did.

"And when…_if…_we manage to corner him?"

Alistair brushed his fingers against the softness of her cheek.

"There is no if," he said raising one eyebrow. "Remember? You and I, Grey Wardens. We can do anything, especially together."

Lucia bit back the sarcastic remark that threatened.

_Together? You mean like how you left me behind when you went off to slay the archdemon?_

She shook off her desire to snap at him, knowing he had been through just as much as she, if not more – and she couldn't. Not with his coronation on the horizon and their happy ending so close she could practically taste it.

Her response was a huge breath. Alistair pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"We question him," he murmured against her skin, his breath warm where it touched. "I know you've had questions. I only want to put your mind at ease so we can move past this. We deserve to be happy," he whispered to her and when she pulled away to gaze up into his eyes she saw there a flicker of desperation and hope before the ever present devotion lit them up. "You can ask him whatever you want, and I'll make him answer."

She knew he needed the closure as well if he was going to move on – after all – at one time, there had been something real between herself and Zevran, and she imagined it was difficult for someone as…new to romance as Alistair was…to understand.

She reached up to stroke his face for a moment, praying that she could find and give him the assurances he wanted.

"We do," she whispered, before kissing him as tenderly as she could muster.

Her Alistair. Wonderful, sweet, _vanilla_ Alistair. The room was quiet for a few moments as each of them fell into their own thoughts.

After a long while, Lucia began to speak in a low voice, thinking of those things that Zevran had not told her, and the questions her father had avoided for so long.

"Do you ever wonder about your mother?" she asked him softly. "I mean…I know you know everything you need to about her, but…just about things. You know, things you might not know. Things Eamon didn't tell you or even…what Maric might have told you were he still alive. Cailan too."

Alistair gave her a quizzical look.

"Honestly? No," he replied running his fingers through her long tresses haphazardly. "But I don't blame you one bit. You told me a long time ago your mother was murdered. It seemed rather strange that your father has hardly ever offered you any sort of comfort about that."

Lucia swallowed and nodded as she heaved a sigh.

"Only instilled a fear of the Crows in me. It seems silly now, doesn't it? After everything I've faced?"

Alistair chuckled. "Perhaps," he agreed. "Or…maybe you don't need to know. Have you ever thought of that?"

"No, never," replied Lucia. "She was my mother. I remember growing up with her, being showered with love and laughter, and…I just can't remember when that stopped. Or why it stopped – only later did Father tell me the awful truth. Why would anyone kill a woman like my mother?"

She could see Alistair thinking on her words with patience, searching for the right thing to say. When he finally spoke, his tone was quiet.

"Why does anything awful happen, Lucia? Why did all those people die in Redcliffe? What about Connor? What Eamon and Isolde have gone through? Why did one mage destroy a whole Tower on his own? Remember Zathrian? Is it really possible for one man to hold such a grudge against something he cannot control? What choice did we have when we killed him? The world is full of sadness, full of things we can't explain. Your mother was probably a wonderful woman, because you are," he finished tenderly. "I'm only sorry I can't make your loss less than what it is."

She was silent for awhile after Alistair stopped speaking, thinking her own thoughts.

"I guess I was thinking about what you said about Zevran. I want to know…things, I suppose. I thought maybe he would know something about Mother that Father won't tell me. I want to know why he betrayed me and why he didn't just kill me when he had the chance."

Alistair nodded.

"I swear, Lucia. I'll make sure he tells you whatever you want to know once we have him where we want him."

She nodded, giving him a smile.

"I know," she said, taking his face in her hands and leaning up to give him another kiss.

* * *

><p>The rain was ear-splittingly loud. The roof of the hovel where Zevran had been renting a room was made of wood and tin. Clearly the wood was rotted through and weak in some places, and the plaster nearest the door had worn out, causing a steady leak along the wall and onto the worn floors. It dripped incessantly, in a steady, predictable rhythm that had lulled Zevran into a half-sleep.<p>

He was aware of much, even in that state. He smelled the damp scent of mold and piss, felt the hard and lumpy mattress under his back, saw the broken plaster on the other side of the room, and heard the rain, driving and hard against the tin. Sometimes, it was loud enough to drown out the gruff yelling from the man who was renting a room next to him. Other times, the yelling was clear and vulgar.

He rolled over, groaning. He wondered if he could fall any worse than he had already. He felt alone and out of place, scared and even remorseful for what he had done to Renaldo Alfieri.

_Perdoname Father. But what choice did you leave me? I panicked. I am sorry._

Lying there in that place, he lost track of time and didn't even realize that the rain had fallen off and the man next door was now silent.

Slowly Zevran got up and moved across the tiny, dirty room and saw through the small crack in the ceiling that it was no longer raining. The navy sky was mostly still gray and muddled, but here and there he caught a glimpse of the faded stars peeking around the heavy clouds. It had been a long time since he had taken a moment to stare up at the heavens, he realized.

Zevran began to think then of being in Ferelden for the first time, traveling with the Wardens (with her) as they aspired to end the Blight. Yes, that had been the last time he had taken the time to see the stars.

_There is still beauty left in the world._

It had been that bard, the red headed lovely one, who had said those words, and they now came back to him in that strange lilting and yet comforting voice of hers.

He found himself recalling nights long after all the others in the ragamuffin team had retired to their tents and random dreaming, and he had lain awake under the twinkling stars, stories his mother had told him of the Dalish –and more specifically of the man she had loved haunting him. Though his mother's first love had not been is father, the idea of his mother loving someone so much she had given up her life with the Dalish to run away with him had captured Zevran's thoughts.

_She loved him so much she ended up homeless on the run-down streets of Antiva City having to sell her body to make ends meet. This is what love does to people? Insanity!_

It had taken a certain grey warden to get under his skin and awaken so many things inside of him. And now…he felt like he knew what his mother had been thinking so long ago.

_It is because now I know how she felt. What I did to my own father is worse than what she did to herself, is it not? _

It gave him a peculiar kinship with a woman whom was his mother but at the same time, a woman he had never known.

Love? A foolish notion yes, and yet…one that had the potential to be the deadliest of traps. Is that how his mother had felt? Was he, Zevran Arainai, loveable in spite of all he had done and was not sorry for? Perhaps his time for love had come – and gone – with Rinna's death. Or perhaps it was simply that he had never deserved love. Either way, such thoughts would not allow the assassin peace, haunting him from the moment he had returned to Ferelden after trying to kill his Master.

_It is then quite unfortunate that Lucia Cousland had been so easy to love!_

Zevran thought that it complicated matters further, for he recalled how simple his life had been in spite of Rinna's death and the assignment that he had accepted in Ferelden. And then, there had been Lucia. He had bought time, watching her silently as she led her group towards a distant goal, facing what lay before her sometimes with feeling and other times without emotion, but always with compassion. He recalled watching thoughtfully, with interest, then admirably, and in the end with a secret desire.

He stepped away from the wall now and moved back to the miserable mattress on the other side of the cramped space, knowing it was either a sleepless night or…he would have to find something to do. His thoughts were his only friends now that Taliesen was gone and he had forsaken his life in Antiva City.

His room faced the back alley of the building, and here nothing stirred, most likely from the late hour and the unsavory feel of the neighborhood. It was because of that quality that Zevran had chosen such a place. The air was cool and wet and he took several breaths of sweet air. Several hundred feet away from him a group of men and women ran through the cobbled streets, yelling joyfully in support of the soon to be King Alistair.

Ah, the coronation – Zevran had nearly forgotten it. It was difficult for the assassin to imagine the awkward and shy spoken man in any position of power, let alone the throne! He almost laughed.

_Oh Lucia, do you even know who he is and how wrong he is for you? Do you truly ache for him or is this choice to be his bride driven by your desire to be the proper noblewoman and daughter? Do you even know what passion is? _

The last thought was inconceivable, for he knew no woman as passionate as Lucia Cousland. Everything that she had done and not done had affected her deeply – she relived all her decisions with deep consideration.

Zevran was of the mind that doing the 'right and 'wrong' thing was always arbitrary. His training had taught him that. What he considered the right thing was never universally claimed as such – and it was this way with all things. After all, most people believed the Crows were a group of evil, heartless men who killed for pleasure and sport. What Antiva City was doing in harboring such monsters was 'wrong.' And yet…he had never looked at being an assassin as something to take shame for, nor any of his killings as being wrong. It was simply a matter of looking at things from a different perspective. With the Crows, he had established a name, money, clothing and nourishment. No, it was not a bad life – nor had it been wrong. Such was the arbitrariness of right and wrong – and he had learned it early in life.

_And of course, there is the matter of my Father. Would those around him see him as evil when I have always admired him for his tenacity, his quick thinking and for taking me in when Mother needed help the most? It is most arbitrary indeed._

Now he thought of Lucia and watching her learn such a lesson when pain and frustration had reflected in her eyes as those she had led often disagreed with her decisions. Zevran, himself, had never spoken his opinion on her decisions for he despised the self righteous, and would not point out her faults if he possessed them himself.

He had seen her cry for the first (and only time) after Connor Guerrin had died by her blade and Alistair had turned from her like a stubborn, petty little boy. Zevran had seen the disappointment in the eyes of the ravishing bard, the indifference in those of the Qunari and the apostate's smugness. None had reached out to Lucia in her distress, but it had been clear that Alistair's opinion mattered above all others.

There had been a mixture of rejection and disgust in Alistair's eyes – it was this that had caused Lucia's sparkling tears. Zevran had wanted to hold her and tell her that some people were not worth the tears, and certainly not a half-man like Alistair. It had been difficult to stomach the overly muscled fool after that. Though it may have been an opportune time to reach out and comfort Lucia after that night – he had not, for it had been obvious that the silly, blithering templar mattered to her, and she to him. Strange how a man who stated he loved her at the same time had the capacity to act like such an ass.

In the end, however, Zevran had convinced himself that Alistair was a better match for her – seeing as he was the future king of Ferelden.

_And I am nothing but an elven assassin who happens to be good at waving around a dagger and putting delightful poisons in people's drinks._

He had told himself thus, and decided that whatever kind of true love that was between Lucia and Alistair – well, he wanted no part of it. Let them indulge in the stupidity that was love. He had bigger things to worry about (and he would not have admitted he was jealous).

He did not, however, lose hope. Perhaps that was love working its unique brand of magic, though he was not certain. In any case, he hoped that one day Lucia would give him a second glance in spite of the blossoming romance with her fellow warden.

And for whatever reason, he got lucky.

Zevran had never truly pursued her, and she had never pursued him – it had simply just happened, as if it had been meant by the Maker. Their coming together for those too brief moments was as unexpected as a rain shower on a sun filled day. He was glad for it too, for the moment came and went so quickly he had hardly been able to wrap his mind around it. Zevran had been used to being the seducer – being a Crow had taught him how to manipulate pleasure and use it as a weapon. Love as an emotion was thrilling, and, at the same time often cut deeper than any dagger. It could debilitate, confuse, muddle, influence, and in the end, it could destroy. He had never held himself to a higher standard – and he had used love just as he would have a sharp sword. To this end, he had not attempted to use such a weapon against the beautiful Grey Warden who had silently stolen his heart. At the time he had been faced with much more pressing problems – the predominant one being his mission to destroy her.

Lucia had come to him, unusually discouraged and confused by Alistair's secrecy about his parentage. She had hoped he'd be honest with her- his deception had reminded her of her father's secrets. Zevran had listened, saying very little. Her eyes had filled with tears and something – he did not know what – had possessed him to reach out and touch her face for the first time, feeling the softness of skin against his calloused fingertips. He had been reminded of an electric shock – ripping through him and awakening him completely. Making him realize in that moment how much it was he loved her.

_No te preocupes, my dearest Grey Warden, everything will be just fine I am sure._

Zevran still recalled those words, the way he had spoken them, and the way she had gazed at him through her tears. Because something in those words had possessed her to lean in and press her lips against his. A kiss – their first – and only.

A kiss born from the need of comfort, offered with trembling lips and tear stained eyes. A kiss perfect in its simplicity – for that was all it had been. Her mouth was as soft as he had imagined, and he had felt himself melting in ways he had never melted before. Though he had never found out why or how she had been feeling that night – Zevran would always remember the exhilaration in his blood at the realization of all his secret wantings, and then the bitter disappointment when she had pulled away in a tearful apology. And so…for her it had been a mistake.

He had watched Lucia flee that night – she had disappeared into her tent and had not emerged again until long past daybreak, making the others raise their eyebrows (for she was a punctually early riser).

Zevran had expected nothing from their encounter and yet – something between them had changed. It was the softness in those green eyes when they looked on him. The furtive glances he could feel her stealing when she thought he wasn't looking. She had no longer minded the fact that he was sneaking a seat next to her around the fire. And her confidence in him – for she had opened up to him in ways she hadn't before.

Zevran had found that love began to sing a song in his heart – and with it he began to grow more bold in his interest, no longer caring what Alistair or anyone else thought of him. The love song made him forget his true purpose, his work as a Crow, everything. It only sang of the secret love he harbored for her, and it only knew of her laughter, the way her eyes lit up and apple cheeks blushed when sugared words fell from his lips. He loved how he was able to make her laugh even when she did not want to. He loved her colorful language, for it was entertaining to hear a woman of her breeding speak the way she did. He loved the look in her eyes when he managed to get her alone for a few seconds (though he was well behaved and never pushed for something she did not want). But most of all, he loved the dark looks that Alistair shot him and the frown that marred his boyish face for it told him what words could not. Zevran had finally begun to do something right – and oh – how he had hoped it was right for her too!

_It was not to be._

Zevran stood in that alleyway, listening to the dripping water off of the roofs and feeling completely alone now that he didn't have the company and warmth of his memories.

But that song that Lucia had begun to sing in his heart had never completely ended and now Zevran still felt twinges of hope. He loved her – this was true, and he had trouble believing that she didn't somehow, in _some way_ feel for him as well.

_I must find out. I can deal with Father later – I have some time at least, but I must find out. If she even loves me just a little bit, well then, all is not lost. _

Some would have seen this as the final coffin in a relationship that would never have worked out. Zevran understood that. After all, he had two small truths stacked against him. Well…perhaps not _small _truths. Fine…two massive truths stacked against him. The first being that he was to finish the job he had started, as if the first betrayal had not been bad enough he had been ordered to do it once more. And secondly was the truth of her mother's murder.

But the love sick elf considered his returning to Denerim a second chance.

_If she loves me, all is not lost. I can deal with everything else, I will explain it all, if she only just loves me!_

Time was of course, of the essence. He had none to lose for the coronation was nigh, the wedding soon after, and if Father had survived, then his hourglass was already running out.

_It is now or never. _


	11. Chapter XI

_As always, I thank Brelaina for her beta help. Finally, Lucia and Zevran meet! _

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><p><strong>CHAPTER ELEVEN<strong>

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><p><em>But you, you're not allowed, you're uninvited ~ Alanis Morissette<em>

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><p>All the things she would need were laid out at her feet in neatly packed sacks. Lucia was bewildered – the plan – as she and Alistair had concocted, was finally being put into action.<p>

It was two nights later, and two nights before the royal coronation feast day. Denerim as a whole was building momentum like one giant spring, ready to launch forward into revelry. The streets were overrun with people making their own private preparations and the castle was busy with the preparations of the huge feast to come, and not only that but the royal wedding plans were already in full swing. Even everyone in Eamon's estate was bustling around with a flurry that Lucia hadn't ever seen before.

She stood in the courtyard and looked out of the gates at the city beyond. The rain had ceased the day before, and here, away from all the noise and the people, Denerim seemed quiet. She was wrapped in a long, warm cloak which warded off the coolness of the night as she waited for sign of the carriage that would be taking her to the Pearl.

The Pearl of all places! It was the last place that Lucia wanted to be seen at under the circumstances of her coming new title.

But Alistair had insisted that if Zevran was to be anywhere, it would be there. It had reminded him of home. Strange thing that, she mused, thinking for a moment on the conversations she had shared with the Antivan elf about the Pearl. And about the brothel he had been raised in. Feeling like a whorehouse was your home! It had been just one of many things that had intrigued Lucia about Zevran, and at the thought of what had been between them, she felt her heart stirring all over again.

No. She had to force those thoughts away once more, as she had been doing for weeks it seemed. Lucia wondered if it was the upcoming wedding, knowing that she would see her family and her old friends and traveling companions once more that were stirring such thoughts in her heart or something else.

There was a sound from the gates, and she shifted her cloak to pull it closer around herself.

The plan was to arrive at the Pearl which Alistair had designed as an elaborate trap, for which she would be the bait. If Zevran WAS there, they would get closure once and for all and then she would spend the night with Alistair somewhere outside of the city in case someone had seen them in such unsavory surroundings. It would at least dispel the strange looks and whispers sure to abound at such a thing! She tried to push away the guilty feelings she had about doing this to someone who had been her friend.

But no, Zevran had NEVER been a friend! He had charmingly ingratiated himself into their group, and lied about whom he was and what he was – knowing that her mother had been killed by the Crows!

_I told him about my mother! I told him about so many things and he lied! How could he? How could anyone?_

The tears that sprung to her eyes were even hotter than usual, due the coolness of the spring night around her.

The Crows. She had been fearful of these men and women her whole life, terrified at night that they would come and kill her the way they had her mother – her father had never allowed her to forget who those men were, although she had grown up to understand that with the anger and need for revenge, her father was also battling some secret guilt. Guilt which he had never spoken of.

It terrified her that she had allowed someone from the Crows get so close to her, but even more so – she was terrified at the fact that she missed him – she sodden MISSED him – now that he was gone.

Her breath escaped with a shuddering sound.

She certainly didn't want to miss him. She felt an aching combination of anger and foolishness at the helpless feelings inside of her. Yes, she was stupid for missing him, but yet, there it was. She missed his laughter most of all – she remembered even during their darkest moments it was he that had been able to make light of things. She missed the man who would support her amidst everyone else's objections – for Zevran had seen it all and Lucia believed that he knew what the world was about. In him she had found the one companion who would never judge her. He had held her hand after killing Connor Guerrin when Leliana and Alistair had turned away, one saddened, the other battling his own emotions and love for her. She missed the levity he brought into their lives – because not everything had to be serious, did it? With Zevran, life had been a reprieve from the grayness of the Blight.

Just the thought that he was near, that she would see him again after so long awoke within her the same fear and excitement that he had stirred in her the night they had shared their only kiss. Amongst the pain she had felt at Alistair's seeming inability to trust her, and the confusion she felt at spending time with someone else, Zevran had _still _managed to make her feel like she was the only woman in the world with his tender expression of affection which she had known was misplaced but had still felt was necessary.

It was frightening for Lucia to think back on it –for even then he had captured some part of her which he had yet to return.

_If only he would! Then I could be happy!_

The troubling feeling was that she was stumbling, reaching for a happiness that seemed so close and yet ended up being just out of her reach. Like something held her back. Alistair was right, Lucia realized. She needed to face the bastard and look at him for what he was – a Crow and a traitor, and then she needed to move past this once and for all.

She stood up straight, taking a deep, cleansing breath. The carriage was late now, and she began to move forward down the shadowy lane, wondering where the driver was. A rustling sound behind her made Lucia whirl around, and out of the corner of her eye she saw a fluid shadow moving along the huge eastern wall.

A strangled cry escaped her for she didn't have her dagger – or anything for that matter – to defend herself with. Looking around, she spied a long metal rake used to clean up the grounds and she dashed to the side to grab for it, feeling its solid weight in her icy cold hands. Her defenses surging, Lucia moved forward into the center of the courtyard, her eyes gazing around sharply before she spotted a darker figure against the far wall. Without charging she estimated the distance between them and then lunged to the side, hoping to startle whoever it was, and then charged, running low and swift to issue a kick to the lower half –where she hoped it would hurt.

The cry stopped her heart; it was all to familiar, but before she could register or cry out, he had pinned her to the wall, his strong arm around her neck cutting off her breathing enough to make it uncomfortable. She couldn't even squirm.

"My dearest Lucia, you sprightly little bitch," he chuckled against her ear, sending shivers down her spine. "And here I was coming to congratulate you, yes? Must you always be on the defense?" he inquired. "Ah well, your so called charms have always been my weakness."

Lucia was glad for the exertion for there would have been no other way hide the erratic gallop of her heart. She twisted hard in his grip, biting him on the hand to get lose, and spun around, her hand coming up to her mouth.

"Zevran!" she squeaked, eyes wide.

She couldn't see him but his voice, the accent; everything had been burned into the bank of her memories forever. In the darkness it was impossible to see his eyes, but she imagined them sparkling with mirth, the corners crinkling just a tiny bit the way they had when she would make him laugh.

"The one and only," he replied easily. "And where were you going this fine evening? Searching for me, I hope?" he quipped and she saw him lean against the wall of the courtyard.

Rendered speechless, Lucia could only stare at the easy way he had seen through her/their plan.

"You?" she scoffed. "Never," she spat.

"Ah, I would never say never," came the reply. "After all, you would not have had that imbecile Perth keeping the proverbial watch over me otherwise, would you? Although I was a few steps ahead of him, yes? I have been in Denerim some time now."

The smile was wide, for she could see the whiteness of his teeth in the darkness.

"You bastard!" she hissed angrily at being foiled.

He laughed in the infuriating way he had.

"Do not turn your ire on me just because you have an ineffectual circle of close advisors," he replied easily. "In fact, I offer you my services. You and the newly crowned King of Ferelden. I would not even ask for much in return, except that you allow me to ravage your beautiful body from time to time," he finished in a wolfish way.

Lucia turned bright red under her hooded cloak.

"You're disgusting!" She spat.

"Tsk Tsk…such a strong word," replied the assassin.

"And delusional!" She shot back defiantly, moving away from him – wanting to be anywhere but here.

"Nevertheless," he said, waving off her latest insult and pulling away from the wall now, "I am here to escort you to your destination."

"What?"

"You heard me," he said, and she could nearly hear the smirk in his voice. "Where does Alistair wait for us?"

Lucia tried not to stare. She had missed him so –

"No. I won't go," she snapped defiantly, ignoring his question. "I refuse to go anywhere, and not with you."

"Certainly he will miss you then," Zevran reminded softly. "Would you want to worry poor, innocent Alistair? He is so…weak, is he not? He relies on you for this plan to work, si?" he asked curiously, cocking his head. "What will you tell him if you do not show yourself?"

Lucia lifted up her chin.

"I have a driver," she announced with some haughtiness.

There was a chuckle from Zevran.

"My, how you have moved up in the world!" he mocked. "Unfortunately, I am sad to say your driver is rather – how do you say… indisposed?"

Lucia's eyes widened.

"What did you do to him?" she screeched, eliciting another laugh from the elf.

"Diantre! Such assumptions," he replied smoothly, and she saw his eyes flashing in the darkness. "It was nothing. I simply invited him for a drink at the tavern, and he is…a lightweight?" he commented casually. "At any rate, he will be asleep for quite some time," he finished and then offered up a hand jauntily.

"Shall we?" Zevran offered once more, and now she could see his expression under the bright spring moon – and it was of sheer enjoyment.

It infuriated her.

"Are you insane? I told you, I'm not going anywhere with you!" she exclaimed, standing her ground.

Zevran's face fell just a fraction though the merriment in his gold brown eyes remained.

"Ah well, though I do not doubt your ability to make the long walk yourself, it really is cold, and you know how I worry about you so," he said with mock concern that ignited the angry fire within her even further.

"Please, don't bother yourself," Lucia muttered with disgust.

"You put up such needless protestations!" he exclaimed, flinging his hands out.

Lucia shoved away from him, nearly falling on the mossy walk before his hand caught her. It felt hot, as if he was branding her, and she yanked away.

"What are you even doing here?" she seethed, green eyes narrowed. "You weren't supposed to be here! That wasn't part of-"

"Well, as you know," he interrupted, "Even the best laid plans suffer under the hand of cruel fate," he said philosophically. "And the woman I know would never have lamented over a plan gone awry. She would have simply come up with another. I imagine being in love with the King elect forces you into backup plans all the time yes? He never was the brightest."

Her anger was palpable, but she refused to be baited by his not so nice comments about Alistair – it was only to make her angrier. Instead she sniffed haughtily.

"Well then you don't know me, Zevran," she replied, turning up her chin in defiance. "That woman doesn't exist!"

Zevran raised an eyebrow and it seemed almost enticing to her.

"Oh but she does, mi carino," he purred, closing the distance between them so swiftly she hardly had time to register that he had. "She exists right here," he whispered, pressing the hot palm of his hand against her rapidly beating heart.

Lucia was helpless to move away from him, her eyes wide as she stared down at his hand, so warm against her body.

"Something makes her hide," he continued to murmur before lifting his honeyed eyes up towards hers. "But she should not. Because I love her. Every amazing, frustrating, impossible, utterly perfect part of her."

Lucia stood stunned, the words ringing in her ears – a frustrating yet perfect echo.

_He loves me? No. No, of course he doesn't. He wants to trick me, just like last time._

In spite of the harsh reminder, her resolve began weakening quickly as Zevran stood next to her that way. But the look in his eyes was anything but facetious. He seemed downright serious and it terrified her.

Strands of his hair had fallen out of their tie into his beautiful eyes, and she longed to brush them away, to touch his skin once more, because the one time in his arms, the start of something that had made her melt, had simply not been enough. That night had awakened within her feelings…

No.

"I want you to leave."

The words were cold, as she worked hard to keep them emotionless. "You are nothing to me – you stopped being anything when you turned on me, on US the way you did! And now you come around, foiling my plans and spewing such rubbish about loving me? You're completely crazy!"

The tears were there, but she refused to let them come.

"Completely crazy in love with you," he breathed then, shaking his head. "I have to be. I cannot think of any other reason to explain all the things I have done to return to you," he finished, and the words seemed to be sincere.

Lucia shook her head, trying to remain calm.

"Go," she hissed, narrowing her emerald eyes.

"You never allowed me to explain!" shot back the assassin. "After all the second chances you gave Alistair, and Leliana and even Morrigan, you wrote me off like rubbish without a thought! Now tell me darling, is that fair? Or is that just you…afraid of what you were feeling?"

Lucia's cheeks colored furiously.

"How predictably arrogant of you!" she huffed defensively. "Of course I had no feelings for you! You betrayed me! You…you disgusting CROW!" she hissed and yanked herself away from him finally. "Go away, Zevran. Go and don't come back. You've done enough, and I refuse to allow you more. My life is perfect now, and I won't have you changing that!"

The elf backed away, his gaze quite peculiar, but Lucia couldn't watch him long without feeling the need to fall apart. Breathing heavily, she looked down at the ground.

_Why didn't you tell me who and what you were, Zev?_

Words –painful words – came back to her from that hot, rainy afternoon…

_I have lied to you, my Grey Warden, about why I am in Ferelden._

She wanted to know why he had betrayed her. But some questions she knew were never meant to be answered.

"Before I go," he hedged, "I want to know about this sinister plan you and Alistair had cooked up regarding me," he finished silkily. "After all, it does concern me. It is not my problem that I am smarter than both of you and I learned about it."

Lucia didn't move.

"There was no plan," she lied flatly.

"Oh but you are the most utterly beautiful liar I have ever met."

"It's true," she retorted.

"So these bags you had packed are not part of some elaborate getaway you had planned with your not so bright lover? I had heard word that after you had ensnared me in your trap you had planned on running away with the blithering Alistair."

"Well, you heard wrong. These are for the children at the new orphanage in the alienage. Royal gifts."

"Oh?"

It happened within two seconds, and Zevran was in possession of a tiny pair of white lace knickers, a wicked smile on his face.

"Those children are quite lucky!" he exclaimed laughing, the sound echoing merrily through the courtyard as Lucia jumped, trying to get her undergarments back from the elf. "But I know a lonely Antivan elven assassin whom would take much greater pleasures from these than those children, yes? Especially with you in them."

Lucia, humiliated and furious, fought hard to get her knickers back, but Zevran was faster.

"You want them back, dearest minx?"

"Give them to me!" she cried out, red faced.

"Hear me out then. Your knickers for exactly one hour of your time. That is all."

Lucia stood, trying to catch her breath, her eyes shooting him daggers. She wondered what choice she had.

"Only if I get to ask all the questions I want," she replied tersely, wrapping her arms protectively around herself.

Zevran lowered his hands, watching her.

"Always the negotiator! How I love it. Fair enough," he replied. "Your drawers, madam," he said formally.

Lucia snatched back the lace, tucking it back into the first sack, and standing up straight though her face was still blooming with color.

"Meet me in an hour at the Gnawed Noble Tavern then," he said firmly, taking a step back.

"You're impossible!"

"And you want me," he replied confidently, a smile lighting up his features.

"I want you to shut up!"

"Ah, but you do not."

"I do!"

"The Pearl," she countered then, thinking that maybe…just maybe she could lead Zevran right into the den of lions and succeed at the plan that Zevran had so single handedly thwarted. "Meet me at the Pearl. If I am forced into conversation with you, then I should choose the place."

She watched in sheer surprise as the assassin threw his head back and let out a merry laugh.


	12. Chapter XII

_Yes, I haven't updated. But then a very special Secret Santa project at Cheeky Monkeys of Dragon Age inspired me. So I thank Suilven and the other Monkeys for the motivation and to Brelaina for her beta skills. I hope you guys enjoy; this is the continuation of Zevran and Lucia's first meeting. Merry Christmas!_

_LCailan_

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><p>CHAPTER TWELVE<p>

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><p><em>Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship. – Oscar Wilde<em>

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><p>Lucia's stunned silence continued as she gaped at Zevran, who refused to hide his merriment at the situation. She couldn't deny the fact that his laughter sounded like a cool breeze on a hot day, like bells on a clear, cold morning. She was as riveted as she was infuriated by it.<p>

"I'm so glad you think this is funny," she hissed with disgust, her mouth turned down in a frown. His eyes danced merrily.

"It _is_ humorous, my lovely one. There is truly some hilarity in the thought that you believe me stupid enough to fall into another one of your traps. Backed into the corner you still come out fighting. How I love that about you!" he exclaimed with a wide smile, his laughter dying for the moment.

Then he grew more somber. "You remember, yes, that I am a Crow?"

"I would rather forget that. Forget you," she replied hotly.

"Ah, well...some people are unforgettable, are they not?" he cajoled. "But do you think I would be stupid enough to meet you anywhere you suggested? Where at the Pearl does Alistair wait, my pet? Does he insist on ambushing me right away, and does he come alone, or does he have reinforcements?"

The question was light and innocent, but Lucia could see murky intent in his eyes, and some murder as well. He was like treachery herself wearing a cloak of seduction.

"I don't know where you get such rubbish!"

"I love it when a woman can look me in my eyes and allow such lies to drop from her enticing lips."

"It's too bad I'm not lying," she continued to lie, staring him in the face without flinching.

Zevran continued to laugh.

"I would be quite flattered, dear lady, to follow you anywhere, but after such a cold reception why would I believe that you would do me no wrong?" he challenged then, his comments taking a completely different turn now. "After all you claim to hate me, yes? I fear for my safety."

His eyes mocked her. Lucia's fists clenched visibly but she did not speak, allowing the assassin to continue.

"To that end, I would love to spend an evening with you at your choosing and leisure, although I do not think that is your intent. Sadly. In fact, I do not think you would speak to me other than to have me walk into a trap set by your betrothed. Although I must say…using you as bait is quite ingenious for I have never known more beautiful bait than you, my ravishing Warden."

His eyes raked over her in the darkness with unabashed desire.

"How do you say…the jig is up?"

"You son of a bitch!" she hissed, causing him to grin widely.

"Son of a whore," corrected Zevran, wearing a kind smile. "My mother leads an unfortunate life, and to say she is not a whore would be a lie. Call me what you may, but the truth is that I am the son of a whore. Not a bitch. Not to change the subject, but...I must correct you on such technicalities for never would I want to defame my mother's character."

His words were cool, laced with a silky condescension and his smile was one heavy with satisfaction.

She wanted to claw his eyes out.

"I hate you!"

"You wish it but alas, it is not to be."

"I never want to see you again!"

Zevran watched her casually.

"The sad thing is...you are denying yourself the one thing that might make you happy. And that is a life with me. Spin your anger however you wish but that will not make the truth go away."

Lucia scoffed.

"Hardly," she snapped in a hurried fashion. "I would never want you. Not now that I know who and what you are. Never."

There was a tremble to her voice, but her stance didn't waver.

"And you wonder why your love life is so tragic?" he countered with a chuckle, surmising her with an appreciative glance. "It's simply because you have chosen again and again men whom are wrong for you."

Lucia's eyes widened.

"Who are you to judge me and my choices in men?" she screeched.

Zevran laughed easily.

"I do not judge, my love. I simply offer gentle advice."

There was the same heart melting smile. She looked away.

"I don't need your advice, or your guidance, thank you," she said stubbornly.

"Ah but I think you might," replied the elf.

Lucia shook her head, a snort escaping her.

"No, I don't. None of that is your business. It never _was_your business!"

Zevran only smiled knowingly and then allowed the silence to reign for a second.

"Ser Gilmore was quite the catch, yes? A man who was more enamored of your brother than of you?"

"No!" she shot back. "Gilmore was...well, he was...in awe of Fergus, I admit. But I know he cared for me!"

"Only when he deemed you worthy of his time, yes? I distinctly recall your saying that you always felt the shadow to your brother when you were together. What kind of man would make his woman feel that way?"

Lucia tried to hide the angry trembling within her.

"My brother is a great man! He is much to be inspired after! All the Couslands are great men!" she shot back defensively. "I won't have you smearing their name, not in front of me! I _am_ a Cousland!"

"And I love it!" exclaimed Zevran passionately. "I never meant to defame your name, I was stating that your lover seemed much more interested in climbing up the ladder so to speak than in actually wooing you as you deserved. But let that go, shall we?"

Eyes narrowed, Lucia practically hissed at him.

"Shut up," she said. "Or I'll-

"What?" he challenged. "I can think of many things you could do to me, although I'm certain you would not be interested in any of them," he chuckled and she made a face, flushing at his words.

"You disgust me."

"Oh, but now! Look at you now!" he said in mock appreciation, ignoring her insults. "In all your finery and one step away from living in the Royal Palace! Mi amor, you have made quite a life for yourself!"

Heart shattering inside her chest, Lucia dared not speak lest she reveal her confusion on the life she had chosen.

"Tsk tsk...and Alistair! You could not have chosen a finer husband if you had wanted!" he exclaimed with a bright smile, though she knew this was just another way to betray her, to make her confused and she narrowed her eyes, refusing to let down her guard around him.

Zevran continued in a conversational tone. "He is quite the catch yes? Loved by all, a great man, brave and strong!"

The words were meant as a veiled mockery, and Lucia wanted to lash out, to stomp her feet like a little girl having a tantrum. She wanted Zevran gone, far away, gone from her sight, and gone from her life and her traitorous heart. She took a deep breath.

"You mock him," came her cold words, each like a dagger meant for his heart if he even had one. "But you aren't even half the man he is!"

Zevran burst into amused laughter once more.

"But my dear, I have never strived to be the man he is!" he tittered. "Why should I? There are too many wholesome men in the world, and I happen to have a deep fancy for myself. Is that so wrong?" he questioned quite pleasantly. "I aspire to be different. To be a little twisted, an unexpected treat in a life full of the mundane. And that is exciting!" he exclaimed.

Lucia's eyes flashed and she turned from him then, because the shuddering in her body was much too hard to contain, and she knew he was right, she _knew_ it, and that's what she had _loved_ (oh yes) about him.

But no more.

A man who could betray someone he claimed to care about was not one she needed in her life. Pity that, for it hurt.

"Go," she whispered hoarsely. "It's clear you only came to mock me and the new life I lead. Jealousy and spite will eat you alive Zevran and I don't care a bit," she finished, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

It was getting harder and harder. He didn't move, and she could still feel him behind her. She could still feel his hand on her heart, warming her from the outside in. She could feel her knees weakening for one impossible moment. No. No.

"What is it you love about him?"

"What is it you want from me?" came her scared whisper. "I want _him_! I told you, I never...when things were difficult, he didn't mean to turn on me! He made a mistake, and I forgave him because I love him. Don't you see? If I had loved you, don't you think I'd have given you another chance?"

This time her words had their desired impact, for she could see in that moment, the fall of his lips, the flash of pain in his eyes, and the way his posture faded. Yes, this time her words _did_ hurt. But she didn't feel the satisfaction she had hoped - instead there was sodden guilt. She pushed on.

"I chose him a long time ago. I shouldn't have...gotten you involved and for that I was sorry for a long time. But not anymore, Zevran. You lied to me, and so that makes us even. I don't care where you go or when you go but you need to stop this."

"This?" came the inquiry. "Why should _this_ bother you if you love Alistair so much?"

Silence.

"What is it you love about him?" came his question once more.

Lucia felt herself falling apart in the worst way possible, and she shook her head.

"Why does that matter? Anything I say holds no merit in your eyes," she whispered. "We've already had this conversation."

"You never gave me a chance to explain!" he exclaimed, angrily stating his purpose for a second time, this time with more desperation. "If you would only listen to me and allow me an explanation you might see that some things that seem so horrible on the surface are not so bad! Am I truly unpardonable?"

"I didn't need you to explain!" Lucia cried back. "Don't you see? I'd already _made_ my decision!"

Finally Zevran backed down, dropping his head.

"And so that is it?" he questioned, and she hated..._hated _the tone of his voice. It hurt her in ways she couldn't explain.

"Please go," she said unemotionally. "Go and I promise to tell Alistair you were never here and you can crawl under whatever rock you came from and no one will be the wiser."

She wouldn't even look at him, instead closing her dry, hot eyes. She waited a moment, breathed in deeply of the icy air, and when she opened her eyes, he was gone.

Gone.

_He__ wasn't __here.__ I'll__ just__ pretend__ like__ he__ wasn't__ here._

Her eyes filled with tears as she turned, stumbling to grab her bags - to get inside for she was shivering, trembling really, shaking now. From the cold, she told herself.

"From the cold."

The tears fell unchecked as she raced through the servant's quarters towards the staircase to lead her to the solitary confines of her suites. There she found herself sobbing uncontrollably over what she had lost, and because she knew no other way to express her sorrow.


	13. Chapter XIII

_I won't lie; I couldn't write this for the longest time. And now I'm back. The next chapter or so will flesh out the other characters a bit before we go back to Zevran and Lucia again. Hope you enjoy!_

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><p>CHAPTER THIRTEEN<p>

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><p><em>Every sweet has its sour; every evil its good – Ralph Waldo Emerson<em>

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><p>The sun beat down mercilessly on the capital of Antiva, glittering against white sands and reflecting over the shimmering sea. The roof of the Alfieri estate sparkled like it was made of precious stones that high afternoon. Within its massive sand and stone walls recuperated a man who had been nearly stabbed to death.<p>

Renaldo managed another breath though each one seemed as if a sharp knife was twisting and gutting the deepest and most sensitive parts of his lungs – and often the pain was so severe he felt himself whimpering.

_Why am I not dead? Zevran – nearly murdered by my own son!_

It had seemed preposterous and no one had believed him when he had spoken of it. He had not believed it himself when he had awoken shortly after the stabbing to find that Zevran had fled Antiva City and no one could find him.

_He is not at my side – I had given him too much faith; I had invested in him too much of my trust._

Renaldo looked up towards his ceilings, surprised at the amount of betrayal that he felt – something which the man had never considered was possible.

His bedchambers were massive. Two rooms encompassed them, each with high, vaulted ceilings and rich dark tapestries and furniture. Though not a small man, he seemed thus, lying in the massive gold and red shrouded bed. When the doors on the far side of the room opened slowly, he knew it was Antonio. No one else had been summoned to him for hours – not since Renaldo had finally accepted what had happened to him and that it had been done by Zevran's hand.

"Master," stated young Felsi, and he lowered himself to the richly carpeted floor in a almost graceful bow, though the boy was rather heavy and all movement was unsurprisingly clumsy.

What _was_ surprising was the certain and deadly way that Felsi wielded a dagger – and it was this which had earned him a place within the Crows. He was like death wearing a cloak – and by the time anyone realized it was too late.

"Come closer," urged Renaldo and the boy moved into the room, his black eyes piercing behind a veil of thick curls. He was breathless, slightly sweaty, no doubt from the exertion of rushing so quickly.

"I came as quickly as I could, my Lord," stated Felsi, always eager to please. "What is it you need?"

The boy wore a look of eagerness, which was something that Zevran had shared- that was until Renaldo had demanded that he finish the job he had started. Just the thought that Zevran loved a _Cousland _was enough to sour the Master's mood completely.

"Sit," he motioned, and Felsi did so with utmost obedience, lowering himself into a plush burgundy chair with a straight back.

Renaldo regarded the boy for a moment before deeming to speak.

"Have you news of Zevran?" he began slowly, sitting up in bed though it was quite a task.

Once he was situated (doing so and showing as little pain as possible) his caramel eyes turned once more towards Antonio. Felsi's eyes widened and a spark of something – either anger or disgust – lit them from the inside.

"Yes, I have," he stated, leaning closer without meaning to.

"Before he did this to me I sent him on a mission," said the Master and then a sardonic smile touched his full lips.

Antonio was quiet, his mouth hanging open just slightly.

"You must find him for me, Antonio, for I am unable to do so myself."

The oafish boy stared at Renaldo through his thick curls, fat fingers splayed along his overly wide thighs.

"Find him?" he echoed stupidly. The boy's voice was laced with bitter disappointment.

"Yes, and ensure the job has been done," Renaldo said firmly. "Make sure that his mark is dead before he returns to me. I want him back here and want the job done. Unfortunately I am not sure he is in the right…mind frame. He might require assistance."

"But I though he was the one who-

"We must not make assumptions, Antonio," interrupted Renaldo in a tone that was kinder than he usually used with his men.

There was a look of deep concentration on the boy's face now – as if he was on the edge of a cavernous precipice and fighting with himself whether to jump or not. The air crackled with anticipation as Felsi's lips moved with slowness. He finally lifted up his red face and spoke.

"Once a Crow, always a Crow. You have always said that. So why is it that when Zevran returned from his last mission which he had failed that you let him live?" he questioned. As with all his boys, the voice was hesitant, and a slight tremble of fear was barely evident. "Why is it that he is the accused of your injuries and yet, you would not have me kill him?"

Whiny, this one was. Whiny and jealous and scared, for it registered in his overly round eyes, in the beads of perspiration on his upper lip and round nose and in his stiff composure.

"I would kill him for you," he suddenly whispered, moving far too quickly and fluidly than a fat boy ought to have been able to and knelt at Renaldo's bedside, his voice now desperate. "I could rid you of him," he continued, as if begging to be allowed such a pleasure.

It startled the older assassin – put him on a sharp edge.

"If I wanted to rid myself of him, I would have done it a long time ago," Renaldo replied refusing to allow the young boy to know of his sudden unease.

Antonio's face turned down in a pout.

"I only want to understand!" he stated then, eyes flashing for a moment. "Why it is that you favor him!"

"I favor no one," spit Renaldo, for Antonio had hit a painful nerve.

His eyes turned from the boy towards the vast window on the west side of the suite which overlooked the bluff on the other side of the estate. The view here afforded nothing but miles of blue skies and the navy of the Amaranthine glimmering in the far distance. The mood in the room bellied the beautiful and calm view. For a long while, neither spoke.

It was Renaldo who finally broke the tense silence.

"I will tolerate no arguments, Antonio," he said creamily turning his black eyes on the boy once more.

The boy's face was no longer red, but an over exerted pink, his large eyes wide and glaring. Renaldo continued.

"I have given you a roof over your head, the clothes on your back and much food and drink from what I can see," he finished, his tone hardening with each word. "In return I ask for your obedience. You do not get to ask questions. Your job is to kill – no more, no less," he finished.

Antonio's jaw twitched vehemently, as if he was working hard to keep something back. Indeed, another fine sheen of sweat appeared on the tip of his rounded nose as his eyes flashed viciously.

"Are we clear?" asked Renaldo, his voice sweetened once more.

The boy opened his mouth.

"Yes, my Lord," he replied, his voice cracking from withheld emotion.

Renaldo was looking towards the idyllic view beyond his windows once more when he spoke.

"You will go and check in on Zevran then?" he questioned once more. "Follow him for awhile, get your bearings and then ensure that the job is done? Finish it for him if need be. But touch not a hair on his head, do you hear me? Send him here when it is finished."

Antonio bowed ungracefully.

"Indeed."

"Very well, I will provide what you need for your journey, boy. Take leave of me," he ordered not unkindly and he did not move his eyes until he heard the heavy trod of the boy's footsteps nearest to his door.

"Wait," he said then, looking up.

Antonio turned, a hungry look in his eyes.

"Send a message from me," stated a disgusted Renaldo. "Tell him that Bryce Cousland will go the way of his wife if he does not return to me."

There may have been a flash on the round, sweaty face, something that made Renaldo wonder if he hadn't given him a look of icy sternness, perhaps they boy would have lashed back, but as it was, he did not. He only nodded.

"As you wish, my lord," were his parting words, and then the slovenly assassin was gone.

Renaldo turned towards the windows once more, feeling uncomfortable and still a touch agitated. The past – and the part that Bryce Cousland had played in it – always left him on edge. This time was no different, and the thought of Bryce turned into thoughts of his bitch daughter, which turned into thoughts of his own dead wife, and then…Zevran.

_And so it begins. They will not stay silent for long – Zevran has done much wrong and it is only a matter of time before the others begin to question me. Why can he not be like the others? Why did he have to be my son, and why did I promise that tartish whore that I would care for him?_

The thought was a disconcerting one – a thought Renaldo did not want to have. He hardly ever thought on the past and when he did it was not for long. The past was just what it was called. And he refused to think on the decisions he had made. The image of his long dead wife swam then in the forefront of his thoughts –for no matter how Renaldo had banished her from his mind, the truth was she was never far. Always haunting him and whispering on how things could have been different.

As he sat up straighter in the massive bed, a serving girl wearing a splendid gown of muslin and gold thread entered the room with a pitcher of ice water which he refused rather gruffly, sending her silently back out of the room.

He sighed.

_Bettina._

He had always felt that his dead wife still watched over him at times, especially times when he was alone. Though Renaldo was not a spiritual man and he had little time for matters of the Chantry or the Maker, he could not deny the singular feeling of being watched – feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention, turning around in an empty room believing that he was not alone when he really was. Over the years he had no doubt Bettina had been with him. Watching him and perhaps even judging his decisions, even though his secret belief of this had never stopped Renaldo from doing just as he well pleased.

This was one of those moments.

He glanced around the room with its majestic maroon tapestries and the long windows with matching drapes. The carpet was thick and luxurious and it was a muted burgundy to match the chairs and his bed. The ceilings spoke of height and grandeur that could only be accomplished through a master builder. Renaldo had commissioned the estate years after Bettina's death – more to distract himself from his past than from actual necessity. He had always been a man of fancy tastes but of little motivation – hence he always lived beneath those things he desired. The sprawling estate had perhaps been the only culmination of all of Renaldo's desires, the conclusion of the symphony of his wants. He had worked on it almost like a man possessed and when it had been finished, Renaldo had retired within it, hardly ever leaving unless it was of dire circumstances. At first his reclusive habits had been frowned upon but after those around him had grown accustomed to his ways, they had allowed him whatever privacy he wanted.

After all, he did his job and he did it well.

Glancing towards the windows once more, he took a breath. Yes, a man of great dreams, and yet…his greatest achievement was his prowess at murder. Until the estate, he had lived in a simple hovel. He had eaten simply, dressed plainly, avoided crowds and shunned popularity and his wife…had been a simple woman.

Downstairs, he heard the commotion of his staff moving about, speaking in light happy voices that their master was in, but that he wished no visitors or conversation and their thank you's as they showed the guests out. People had come and gone in this way from the eve of the stabbing – and although most would have appreciated the thought – Renaldo knew that they came out of fear, not admiration. The only person who had ever loved and cared for Renaldo Alfieri had been Bettina. He was not a stupid man and he knew that to deny that fact would be to look away from the truth. In spite of what she had done – and the birth of a girl child who had not been Renaldo's – she had loved him so fiercely that often times he had lain awake at night feeling the cold grip of guilt on his heart. For what woman looked her husband in the face and knew him for an unremorseful killer?

Bettina had known Renaldo inside and out – from the man he had been when they had met, to all his dealings until her death – and she had never turned on him, never uttered a word of betrayal, and had been endlessly supportive. She had been the one to nurse his wounds and to hold his hand when things had gone wrong. She had been the one who had fed him and kissed him goodbye in the morning, sending him out into the world to make it a more horrid place. His love for her had been unquestionable – a certainty in the mind of a man who took nothing for certain.

She had been a wench at the Weeping Griffon, one of the rowdiest establishments within Antiva City. She had been young and Renaldo had admired her form, the way she moved, the lilting laugh she offered her patrons and the fact that she had a smile for everyone. She had been stunning too – eyes as green as grass and hair the shade of ripe blood oranges always pinned to the nape of her delicate neck. From the moment their eyes had met across the space of the room she had stolen his heart.

He had never stopped loving her – not even on the last night he had seen her, when her death had been assured him. Though he had not wielded the poison which had killed her, Renaldo had caused Bettina's death as sure as if he had done it himself.

Shuddering, the man looked down at his worn, tanned hands his coffee cream eyes closing for a few moments as he tried to banish the horrible memories that affronted him. It had been months since his last bout of guilt over his wife's death.

_I will not think on it._

But such demands on the flood of memory were futile. Strange it was after all those years of marriage that Renaldo had never believed or even suspected that Bettina might love another – or even gaze at another – for her devotion to him had been unwavering. And Renaldo had accepted her words as truth when she had come admitting to him that she was with child and the baby would not be his – and begging for forgiveness for her transgressions against him. His anger at her and murderous intent towards the child's father had melted at the glittering tears in her wide jade colored eyes. The same eyes that had won him a thousand times over.

He had rushed from their small house near the canal of Antiva City and had gotten besotted on dark ale and bewitched by a beautiful woman who had hair as bright as the sun. Or so he remembered.

The assassin sat up in the large bed again, fingers clutching his blankets so tightly the knuckles were white. His face turned down in a grimace and his jaw trembled as he looked towards the windows, trying to compose himself.

One night – a night he hardly remembered – and he had done to Bettina what she had done to him.

_Good eve, my Lord. You look rather lonely._

The words rattled him – everything about them, the soft lilting voice with its crude dialect for she had not been Antivan born, to the sultry tones which quickly had seduced him. Ah, for she had been a seducer of men and even he had been taken by her.

Shaking his head, Renaldo swallowed his guilt and despair, looking out towards the idyllic view once more even as it did him no good.

Though he had never known if Bettina had loved Bryce Cousland, or even how the affair had transpired, the assassin had asked no questions, simply putting aside his wife's sin to deal with later and focusing instead on how to eliminate the _result_ of the sin – the girl babe born several months later. He remembered the pink, squirming bundle, with eyes the same color as her mother but pale, almost translucent skin like her father.

Renaldo had wanted nothing to do with the child and even Bettina's soft begging had not swayed him – not that time. And when Bryce Cousland had come to Antiva City a month later, bringing with him the startling brunette Fereldian beauty who had been his wife, he had given the child up under the stipulation that the Cousland's never return to Antiva. He had sternly ignored the pleading of his wife and had threatened Cousland that if he ever laid a hand on his wife again, he would have his head.

Though Renaldo had never believed Bryce to be a man of scruples (for what smart man would sleep with the wife of another?) this time he had heeded the assassin's demand, taken the girl child and then gone from Antiva City. This, however, had not appeased Renaldo and he had spent months after pacing his bedchambers, refusing much food and water and plotting against his wife. He had not intended to have her murdered – that was until the night he had also taken the life of Eleanor Cousland.

Once it had taken hold in his mind, there was no letting it go.

Hours after murdering Bryce's wife, he remembered kissing Bettina goodbye, whispering to her that everything would be just fine now as he ran his fingers through her beautiful hair one last time and breathed her in, relishing the scent of the rose scented bathing oil she always used.

He had watched her hurry away to work and it had been the last time he would ever see her and her death was the only that had ever awakened his guilt.

_And now? Here I am. Alone in a massive estate which I built to forget about her and yet she will forever haunt me!_

The massive doors opened once more and the same muslin clad young girl came in offering supper with a tentative smile on her tanned face.

Renaldo had not realized how much time had lapsed since Antonio's departure and he nodded his acceptance. Supper arrived moments later on a silver tray. The young girl curtsied politely and turned to leave.

"I would go into the city," stated Renaldo and the girl turned a look of surprise on her face.

"Today, my lord?" she questioned.

"Tonight, yes. Have them make preparations. I will dine and then go."

"Yes, right away, my Lord," she replied and hurried away to make preparations.

Renaldo began to eat slowly, tasting nothing of the singular delights of Antiva City, his mind already on the task to come, the visit to the city.


End file.
